


Friends and Foes

by Northumbrian



Series: Nineteen Years and Beyond [29]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Auror Harry, Auror Ron, Aurors, Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Humor, Mystery, Post-Battle, Post-Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northumbrian/pseuds/Northumbrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and his friends finally know who killed Ginny and Luna's classmate, Colin Creevey. It is 2001, and the search has been ongoing for a year. Will those final few foes who escaped justice at the end of The Battle ever be brought to justice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Surrey Start

**Prologue: A Surrey Start**

Easter Saturday was pleasantly warm and sunny.

The sky was the almost unreal poster-paint blue of a child’s painting, as bright as an early spring day could be. The few clouds scattered across the firmament appeared to have been stuck onto it by a child; they were high and fluffy wisps of cotton wool white. An almost imperceptible south westerly wind blew softly along the street, barely rustling the leaves of the well-trimmed hedges which ensured that the street lived up to its name.

It was such a nice afternoon that many of the residents of Privet Drive were outside tending to their gardens. There were lawns to be mown, herbaceous borders to be weeded and flowers to be watered. Those who were disinterested in gardening busied themselves in other ways. They had large and expensive cars, which needed to be ostentatiously washed and polished. The street was typically quiet; secateurs snipped and hoses sprayed; the loudest noise was the contented whir of happily grazing lawnmowers.

As they worked in their gardens, some of the residents nodded politely to their neighbours. One or two wives actually spoke to each other, but in the main, the residents of Privet Drive behaved naturally. They stayed within the boundaries of their individual castles, keeping themselves entirely to themselves.

The peaceful suburban idyll was shattered when a large black motorcycle thundered noisily around the corner from Magnolia Crescent. To the annoyance of the locals this unwelcome intruder did not, as expected, roar off down the road. Had it done so, it would have allowed them to shake their collective heads and mutter under their breath about young hooligans on motorbikes. Instead, as the residents watched in abject horror, the bike slowed and rolled to a halt. When the rider switched off the engine, an expectant hush fell across the street. In the silence, everyone took careful note of where this hateful machine had stopped.

It was number four. Of course, where else would it be? The Dursleys had visitors, and those visitors were riding a motorcycle! En masse, the eyes of Privet Drive stared. The tasks they had, until then, been diligently supervising were forgotten as they concentrated their collective gaze on this undesirable invader.

Mr and Mrs Dursley had been the subject of much gossip among their neighbours. Almost four years ago the Dursleys had vanished. Their house had been left empty and untended, their lawn had grown wild, weeds had crept through into the neighbouring gardens, and the privet hedge had remained untrimmed. As the months passed it had steadily transforming itself into a wild, overgrown, and litter-filled tangle. The place had looked untidy. It had brought shame upon the entire street.

Worse, during the Dursley’s absence strangely dressed men had been seen in the neighbourhood. These furtive outsiders were often seen hanging around number four. Some residents were convinced that, for a time, these odd, cloak-wearing individuals had actually been living in the house. It was all very strange and mysterious, and not at all what should be happening on Privet Drive!

Then in May almost three years ago, nine months after their disappearance, the Dursleys had returned. They had unpacked their car and tried to act as though nothing had happened. Vernon Dursley cut his grass and trimmed his hedge, but the other inhabitants were curious. Where had they been? What had they been doing?

Mr Dursley, red faced and spluttering, had told his curious neighbours that they had been on a world cruise. When politely asked for more details he seemed strangely unable to name any of the places they had visited. His gruff answers of “abroad” and “foreign parts” really were not much of an explanation for a nine month holiday, not even for the notoriously bluff and uncommunicative Vernon Dursley.

Eventually, unable—or unwilling—to explain their absence, Mr and Mrs Dursley had simply stopped speaking to the other residents. Now, for the first time in many years, they had visitors; at least visitors other than Vernon Dursley’s sister.

The neighbours were intrigued. Who were the mysterious couple on the motorbike? What could they possibly want with the Dursleys? The hosepipes which had been busily washing cars were turned off. Lawnmowers came to a halt. Gardening gloves were removed; secateurs and trowels were laid on the grass. The curious residents stood and silently watched the arrival of these mysterious strangers.

Both rider and pillion passenger wore black denim jeans and leather jackets. Their jackets seemed to catch the sunlight on their scaly, almost snake-like, black-green surface. The only difference between the riders was their helmets. The rider wore a red helmet, trimmed with yellow and with a yellow image painted on each side. One particularly sharp eyed (and heraldically aware) resident identified the image as a lion rampant. The passenger’s helmet was dark green, and it had a yellow talon painted on the sides.

The pillion passenger was small in stature, and very definitely female. The moment the bike stopped, she stood up from her seat. From her elevated position, standing on the bike’s foot pegs, she had a good view down the street at the staring residents. She pulled off her helmet and shook out a mane of unnecessarily vibrant and blatantly red hair. The face beneath the helmet was that of a pretty, freckle-faced girl who looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. The girl smiled, and waved at the curious onlookers. The scandalised residents of Privet Drive looked away, trying to ignore such ostentatious and uncalled for friendliness.

Shrugging her shoulders dismissively, the girl swung her leg over the bike and stepped down onto the pavement, reducing her height by about a foot. The locals continued to watch, but now they exhibited a little more caution. Their sidelong stares were rewarded when the rider pulled off his helmet to reveal a bespectacled young man with tousled black hair. Several of the residents exchanged knowledgeable glances with each other. They recognised the young hooligan immediately. It was the Potter boy! He was back, and he would be certain to cause trouble. There was no doubt about that!


	2. Easter in Little Whinging

**Easter in Little Whinging**

Ignoring the surreptitious stares of his aunt and uncle’s neighbours, Harry kicked down the side stand and leaned his bike into the kerb. He made sure that the machine was secure before letting go of the handlebars and swinging his leg over the seat. He then bent over and carefully examined the motorcycle.

‘Ginny, when you dismount, could you kick your foot peg up, please?’ he asked.

Ginny Weasley looked puzzled. Harry pointed to the footrest on the offside of the bike.

‘The kick-starter swings down there,’ he explained. ‘The first time I tried to start the bike, yesterday, that peg was in the way. I nearly broke my foot.’

‘You don’t actually need to start the bike like that, Harry,’ Ginny pointed out. ‘It doesn’t even need to make all that noise. You, Dad, Ron and George have spent a year rebuilding the thing, adding all sorts of magic, and yet you insist on riding it as if it was an ordinary Muggle machine.’

‘I’m trying to be inconspicuous, to blend in,’ said Harry, smiling. ‘We spend most of our time in the Muggle world, Ginny, so I want to be able to arrive at places looking like a Muggle.’

Harry’s girlfriend shrugged, stepped around the bike, and used her booted toe to kick the peg up.

‘Better?’ she asked.

‘Thanks.’ Harry grinned. He grabbed the handlebars in his left hand and the pillion grab bar in his right, put his right foot on the centre-stand and with an easy rocking motion rolled the bike back onto the main stand. Satisfied that the bike was stable, he kicked the side stand back in place and turned to his girlfriend.

‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked.

‘I prefer brooms,’ said Ginny, ‘I like being in control when I’m flying. But I have to admit there is one, rather pleasant, advantage.’

‘What’s that?’

Ginny grabbed Harry’s shoulder, turned him around, and stepped behind him.

‘This,’ she said, sliding her hands around his waist, under his jacket, and up onto his chest, ‘is a very comfortable riding position.’ She pulled herself close and rested her head on his back.

‘I enjoyed it too,’ Harry smiled over his shoulder. Ginny released him and he turned to face her.

‘What do we do with these things? She asked, holding up her helmet. Harry fumbled with the bike seat, lifted it and pointed to a small metal hook.

‘Hang them on there, use the helmet strap,’ he demonstrated.

Ginny copied him, and he dropped the seat back into place.

‘You’re crazy you know.’ Ginny shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’re as bad as Dad.’

‘I don’t think your dad is crazy,’ said Harry, sounding shocked. ‘He’s extremely enthusiastic about Muggle technology, possibly even over-enthusiastic, but not crazy.’ He grinned as she chuckled. ‘Like I said, we need to be able to get about in the Muggle world without attracting attention. The bike is a good way to do it. Do you want me to tell you why we rebuilt it—again?’

Ginny sighed and looked up at her boyfriend, a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes.

‘It was Sirius’ bike, now it’s yours. It’s a Triumph, a British classic. It’s been rebuilt to the original specification. That was the easy part. It’s been re-registered in your name so you’re the legal owner. It’s got all of the relevant paperwork, just in case the Muggles want to check it. You got George to help you with most of the enchantments, not Dad. That’s why the invisibility booster actually works, though you’re much too polite to tell Dad that. The shield spell works properly too, and unlike Dad’s old car it flies smoothly.’

She clasped her hands behind her back and put on her most demure expression. ‘Have I passed?’ she asked innocently.

Harry laughed.

‘You _were_ paying attention when I was talking to Ron yesterday! You surprise me, Chaser Weasley.’

Ginny raised an eyebrow.

‘I always pay attention. I like to know what you’re doing, Auror Potter. Full marks to me! Again! Where’s my prize?’

Harry leaned forward, slid his hand into her hair, pulled her gently towards him and kissed her. He was oblivious to the outrage that this public act of affection caused among the still watching residents of Privet Drive. Ginny gently pushed him away.

‘I’ll accept that as a partial payment, I’ll take the rest later,’ she said. Harry grinned, he was about to speak, but Ginny stepped back, put her hands on her hips, and gave him her best “Molly” glare.

‘I know what you’re doing, Harry,’ she scolded gently. ‘You’re trying to delay the inevitable. We’re here to visit your family—so let’s do it.’ She took his hand and led him up the drive towards the front door of number four Privet Drive.

‘This is it?’ she asked. ‘Your home, until you were seventeen?’

Harry shook his head in emphatic denial.

‘My home until I was eleven.’ He scowled as he spoke. ‘After that, Hogwarts—and the Burrow—were my homes. I had more happy times there than I ever did here.’

Ginny was shocked at the venom in his voice. Her boyfriend’s time at school had been difficult and dangerous; on occasions it had been close to fatal! But he thought that this place was worse. She gave his hand a comforting squeeze.

‘Was it really that bad?’ she asked gently.

Harry nodded. ‘I told you I’d be happy if I never saw them again. I was telling the truth. We had the Easter weekend to spend together, Ginny. Instead we’re here today, at The Burrow tomorrow, and visiting the Grangers on Easter Monday.’

‘The Dursleys _are_ your only relatives Harry,’ she reminded him. ‘We’re spending our three days off visiting our families.’

‘Unfortunately, mine hate me,’ Harry replied as they reached the front door. ‘I can guarantee that I’ll get a much warmer welcome at The Burrow and at the Grangers place. There’s no car on the drive, they’re probably out for the day. Let’s just go.’

Ginny shook her head firmly, reached past Harry, and rang the doorbell.

‘You weren’t quite seventeen the last time you saw them, Harry,’ said Ginny. ‘You’ll be twenty-one this year. If it doesn’t work out, we need never come back, I promise.’ Harry looked into Ginny’s sparkling and earnestly pleading eyes. His heart melted.

She meant well, he knew that. Ginny came from a large, boisterous and loving family, a family he regarded as his own. His girlfriend simply could not comprehend his reluctance to visit Little Whinging. No matter how often he’d told her of the life he’d led before Hogwarts, she refused to believe that the Dursleys had no redeeming features.

There were times when the spectre of Harry’s childhood still haunted him. This visit, as Ginny had made him realise, was the only way to lay the ghost to rest. But no one came to the door.

‘No-one in.’ Harry said, turning to go. But Ginny rang the bell a second time.

‘Just a minute,’ an annoyed, and instantly recognisable, voice shrilled. Harry heard a security chain being put in place and the door being unlocked. Ginny pushed him forwards as the door opened a crack. A familiar, horsey, face peered through the gap.

‘Harry!’ said Aunt Petunia in a shocked whisper before collapsing on the hall floor in a faint.

Harry pushed at the door. The chain only allowed it to open a couple of inches, but as a fully trained and qualified Auror, a simple Muggle security device was no problem for him. Carefully hiding his actions from the neighbours he pulled his wand from his jeans and unfastened the chain.

Avoiding the crumpled figure of his aunt, Harry carefully pushed his way into the house. He looked down at the figure lying supine on the floor: apron, rubber gloves and cleaning cloth. Some things didn’t change Harry realised. But she was smaller than he remembered. She was taller than Ginny, but much smaller than he was, and so thin and bony. Harry knelt down beside his aunt, wondering what to do.

‘Carry her into the living room,’ Ginny instructed, as she stepped into the hall beside him and closed the front door. ‘Where is it?’

‘First door on the left,’ Harry told her.

Ginny strode past him and opened the living room door. Carry her? How? Harry panicked. He could not think of any time when he’d actually touched his Aunt Petunia, or vice versa. She had smacked him, pulled him, pushed him and shouted at him. Had there ever been any simple, human, contact?

He took a deep breath _it doesn’t matter who it is, she needs my help_ he told himself. He put one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees; and stood. Petunia was no weight at all. Ginny was heavier, and he could carry her easily, provided she didn’t struggle; although it was usually more fun when she did. He smiled to himself before pushing memories of good times with Ginny from his mind. Carefully, Harry carried his aunt into the spotless living room. As he gently placed her on the sofa, she began to stir.

Harry stood, unzipped his dragonskin motorcycle jacket and threw it onto one of the armchairs. It created a pleasing clutter in the antiseptic cleanliness of his aunt and uncle’s living room. Ginny took her cue from Harry and did the same. The short, low cut, bright yellow top she was wearing under her jacket revealed her stomach, shoulders and arms. She looked in interest at Harry’s shirt. It was a replica International Quidditch shirt with “England” written across the front and “Weasley Chaser” written on the back.

‘Those shirts don’t go on sale for another week,’ she observed.

‘I have contacts.’ Harry smiled. ‘Do you want one?’

‘I think they’ll give me the real thing before the game,’ said Ginny.

‘It would be more of a distraction to the opposition if they didn’t,’ said Harry, straight-faced. Ginny laughed.

‘I don’t think that my boyfriend would approve,’ she told him.

‘You’re right, he wouldn’t,’ Harry agreed.

They grinned at each other.

His aunt sighed; he crouched down in front of her, still unsure of what to do. _If it was anyone I knew, I’d be comforting them by now._ That thought brought him up sharply. Anyone he knew! This was the woman whose house he’d lived in for half of his life, yet he didn’t know her at all. Petunia sobbed.

‘Aunt Petunia,’ Harry said softly. ‘How are you?’

‘I’ll go and get a glass of water,’ Ginny said. ‘Kitchen?’

‘Turn left in the hall, the door’s straight ahead,’ replied Harry. ‘Thanks, Ginny.’

‘Aunt Petunia?’ Harry asked again. ‘Are you all right now?’

‘Harry,’ Petunia whispered, and burst into tears. Harry was horrified. He stood, reached into the pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a clean handkerchief. He again crouched down in front of his aunt and pressed the handkerchief into her hands. Petunia took it and dabbed her tears daintily. She was beginning to regain control when Ginny re-entered the room, carrying a glass of water. Petunia looked her disdainfully up and down and gave her the glare she usually used for the most stubborn of stains.

‘Aunt Petunia,’ Harry said, ‘this is my girlfriend, Ginny Weasley, she’s brought you a glass of water. Ginny, this is my Aunt Petunia.’ Petunia reluctantly held out her hand to take the glass.

‘Hello, Aunt Petunia,’ Ginny smiled politely, handing her the water. Petunia glowered at Ginny, then at Harry, but did not reply. She sat, sipping water in silence, and dabbing at her face with Harry’s handkerchief. The uneasy silence seemed as if it would never end, but eventually, Petunia spoke.

‘What do _you_ want?’ she demanded.

Harry could feel his temper rising. Why had he bothered coming?

‘Sorry,’ he said to Ginny.

‘It’s not your fault, Harry,’ Ginny said. She folded her arms under her breasts, turned, and glared into Petunia Dursley’s face. Harry watched as his aunt quailed under the blazing gaze of his petite tigress.

‘Harry is here because I insisted that he bring me. We’ve been going out for almost five years, and I’ve never really met you. You are the only family he has. He told me that you wouldn’t be pleased to see him, I didn’t believe him. Apparently I was wrong. After I’ve met the rest of your family we can leave and never come back, if that’s what you want.’

Petunia set her jaw and silently pondered Ginny’s offer.

‘Where are Uncle Vernon and Dudley?’ asked Harry.

‘Not here,’ said Petunia unhelpfully. 

Ginny calmly changed tactics and tried again. ‘I realise that it’s a bit of a shock us turning up unannounced like this,’ she said. ‘But, I would like to meet your family. Harry knows mine, and I don’t know his, it seemed a little unfair to me.’ Ginny looked carefully at Petunia, ‘Your sister was Harry’s mum, right?’

Petunia nodded, and Ginny continued her charm offensive.

‘So you and your son are Harry’s only blood relatives.’ Ginny gave Petunia her best smile, the one that could persuade Harry to do anything, ‘I’d like to meet Dudley, is he here?’

It was as if a dam had burst. Petunia started talking very quickly.

‘No, he didn’t come back—stayed at university—up there—even managed to get a summer job last year—he only came back for his birthday. We hardly ever see him. My baby’s gone!’

Ginny knelt down in front of Petunia and held her hands. To Harry’s amazement, Petunia didn’t pull away.

‘That’s what happens,’ said Ginny in a low and comforting voice, ‘My eldest brother is married with a baby daughter, the second lives in Romania, the third and fourth have flats in London but Percy will be moving back to Devon soon, because he’s getting married.’ Ginny paused and watched Petunia consider her words.

‘Harry lives with my brother, Ron, and I live in a terraced house in Beaumaris.’ Ginny glanced at Harry and grinned as she said this. While technically correct, in fact Ron spent most of his time at Hermione’s flat and Ginny stayed with Harry whenever her training schedule would allow. ‘My Mum and Dad have no kids at home now, either. But we’ll see them tomorrow. We visit them regularly.’

‘D-D-Dudley doesn’t visit,’ Petunia said, and she began crying again.

Ginny stood and looked at Harry.

‘You try,’ she whispered. ‘Just talk to her.’ She then spoke normally, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Aunt Petunia?’

Petunia nodded.

‘I’ll go and make one for us, shall I?’ Ginny walked out of the living room leaving Harry, once again, alone with his aunt.

‘Is—is there anything I can do to help, Aunt Petunia?’ He asked. There was no reply.

‘Where is Dudley? Could you give me his address? I could go and talk to him. I don’t even know where the Order took you…’ Harry stopped suddenly—because I didn’t ask, he realised—I didn’t care.

‘North,’ Petunia spat the word venomously. ‘Newcastle—horrible place—nosey neighbours—Dudley’s still there. It’s all gone wrong, and it’s your fault.’

‘But Hestia and Daedalus kept you safe for nine months. They brought you back here, after—after the battle. They set things up as if you’d never been away. Tonks set up the world cruise story the day after you left. She even arranged things so that Uncle Vernon would be able to keep his job.’

After the battle, Harry had spoken at length to both Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle. They had kept the Dursleys safe, and had suffered constant complaints from them while doing so. Dedalus in particular had been persistently harangued and insulted by Uncle Vernon. Despite providing the Dursleys with a pleasant house, and managing to get Dudley enrolled in the local private school, the only thanks the two had ever received had been from Harry.

It was his discussions with Hestia, some weeks after the final battle, which had made Harry decide not to get back in touch with his family. Hestia had been more forthright than Dedalus, who could not, it seemed, be impolite about anyone. Harry had resolved to wait until the Dursley’s contacted him. They hadn’t.

There was a creak as the front door open.

‘Petunia,’ Uncle Vernon bellowed from the hall. ‘The neighbours were all watching me, and there’s a ruddy great motorbike parked on the road outside—WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?’

Harry was on his feet the second Uncle Vernon’s initial shout transformed into ear-shattering apoplectic rage. He pulled open the living room door and stepped into the hall in front of Vernon. Harry’s uncle had been striding down the hall towards Ginny, who was carrying a tray from the kitchen. Vernon’s face, which had already reached red when Harry stepped into the hall, deepened to an unpleasant shade of puce when he saw his nephew.

‘Hello, Uncle Vernon,’ said Harry. As he placed himself between Ginny and his uncle, his heart was thundering in his chest. ‘This is my girlfriend, Ginny, and that’s my bike outside. We thought that we’d come and visit.’

‘YOU!’ Vernon yelled, ‘OUT! GET OUT NOW! How dare you—motorbike—girlfriend! Hah, she’s one of YOUR LOT isn’t she? Like those FREAKS you sent us away with! Will you never leave us alone? We don’t want your type around here.’

Harry found himself backing away from his uncle; he was being pushed backwards into the kitchen by the force of Vernon’s anger. He held up his hands, palms facing Vernon Dursley. As he backed through the kitchen door he looked around to see Ginny putting the tray down on the worktop.

‘Fine, we’ll go,’ he told Vernon angrily. ‘We’ll leave now. C’mon Ginny, let’s get out of here.’

Ginny grabbed Harry’s hand and held it tightly.

‘Harry, you’re a trained and qualified Auror; you’re the bravest person I know. Why are you letting this overweight, opinionated old fool bully you?’

Vernon stopped at Ginny’s words.

‘What did you just say?’ he bellowed. His jowls quivering like blackcurrant jelly in an earthquake, Vernon rounded on Ginny and raised an admonishing finger.

Harry released Ginny’s hand and stepped forwards, once again interposing himself between Vernon and Ginny. He was now almost toe to toe with his uncle and was surprised to discover that they were about the same height. He glared at Vernon, their faces only inches apart. Dumbfounded, Vernon closed his mouth with a snap.

‘Uncle Vernon,’ said Harry in a menacingly quiet voice. ‘Shut up and listen.’

‘I’m twenty years old, I’m an adult. I have Ginny, I have lots of friends and I’m happy,’ he announced. ‘You can’t bully me, not now.’

As he spoke, Harry realised the truth of his own words. This sudden insight amazed him. He smiled at his uncle. It had been worth the visit for this moment. Vernon glared in disgust and incomprehension at Harry. He sneered.

‘Friends …’ Vernon began dismissively. For a second Harry was confused; then he remembered who he was talking to. Friends and happiness meant nothing to Vernon, _money, that’s what he understands_ Harry remembered. He interrupted his uncle and tried again.

‘I was left a lot of money by my parents and a lot more by my godfather. I live in my own house, with a servant, and I have a well paid job. I’m wealthy _and_ happy,’ Harry told his uncle firmly. Vernon was so surprised that he fell silent.

As the colour drained from his uncle’s face, Harry examined him closely. Vernon Dursley looked ill. His hair and moustache were greying and unkempt, his flabby purple-veined jowls were badly shaved, his eyes were watery and his breathing laboured. This wasn’t the massive malevolent monster who had bullied and terrorised young Harry; this was a pathetic, ill, old man. How old was he, Harry wondered; fifty? He was unlikely to be much more than that, but he looked at least ten years older.

‘You can’t take Ginny or my friends from me; and you can’t frighten me, not anymore.’ Harry said calmly.

Vernon took a step backwards.

‘You don’t know Ginny, so you have no reason to insult her.’ Harry took a step forwards. ‘If you want us to leave, just ask us, but please do it politely,’ he continued. The sudden change in the situation was making him lightheaded. ‘I would like to finish my conversation with Aunt Petunia before we leave. Is that okay? She and Dudley are my only blood relatives.’

Uncle Vernon took another step back, away from Harry. He seemed cowed by Harry’s changed attitude and gave a curt nod, as if he couldn’t trust himself to speak.

‘Let’s go into the living room.’ Harry said politely. ‘Would you like some tea? It might help you calm down.’

Uncle Vernon nodded again. Harry wondered how long this new Vernon would last. Minutes at most, he suspected.

‘I’ll get another cup,’ said Ginny brightly as Harry followed his uncle out of the kitchen.

Vernon sat down on the sofa beside his wife and, to Harry’s astonishment, put his arm around her. Harry sat down in the empty armchair.

‘So,’ Harry began ‘Where is Dudley? Is he still in Newcastle?’

‘Yes,’ Petunia said quietly. She looked at her husband and was about to speak when Ginny came into the room, a tray in her hand.

‘I’ve brought milk and sugar, as I didn’t know how you like your tea,’ she said politely to Vernon and Petunia. ‘Will you help yourselves, or do you want me to pour?’

‘I will do it, thank you,’ replied Petunia, almost choking on the last two words. Ginny nodded and picked up the two cups she’d already poured.

‘Tea, strong, milky, no sugar,’ she announced, handing Harry a cup. She glanced at the second armchair, which contained their jackets, decided not to move them and instead sat on Harry’s knee.

‘Thanks, Ginny,’ said Harry. He placed a hand on her thigh and squeezed it gently. Her smile told him that she understood the gesture; she knew he wasn’t simply thanking her for the tea. Harry was also grateful that she was there; without her, things would have gone very differently.

The two couples watched each other in suspicious silence. Petunia, Harry sensed, was on the verge of saying something, he simply needed to wait. Taking a sip of tea, he sat in silence. When Ginny began to fidget, he exchanged a glance with her. She did not speak, but silently acknowledged the fact that she knew he was waiting for Petunia to fill the silence by stroking the knuckle of his middle finger. Finally, Petunia spoke.

‘Dudley will be twenty-one this year,’ she said.

Harry nodded. ‘Me too,’ he replied.

Petunia dismissed this unimportant information with a wave of her hand.

‘We want to organise a party for him,’ she continued.

Vernon nodded in agreement. Harry watched in fascination. His uncle’s chins continued to quiver long after his head had stopped moving.

‘Dudley wanted us to invite you,’ Petunia announced. ‘He seems to think that we treated you badly when you were little.’

Harry’s forehead wrinkled in surprise.

‘Nonsense, of course,’ Vernon explained dismissively. ‘It’s that university. He’s been listening to those hippy types.’

‘You wouldn’t want to come, would you?’ Petunia asked hopefully. ‘If we told him you’d visited, that we’d asked and you didn’t want to come; then that would be all right and we could organise his party.’

‘I’m always up for a party,’ said Ginny. ‘I’ll take any opportunity to drag Harry onto a dance floor.’ She ruffled his hair affectionately. Petunia went pale.

‘I _would_ like to see Dudley,’ Harry said.

‘At least,’ he added honestly. ‘Ginny would like to meet him. Do you have his address, or a phone number? I could visit, or telephone him.’

Petunia looked uncertain.

‘I could try and persuade him to let you organise a party for him,’ Harry offered. Petunia’s expression changed to one of hope.

‘I doubt that we’d be able to go. It will depend on my work, and Ginny’s fixture list, she’s made the England squad,’ he told them proudly. His aunt and uncle weren’t impressed by Ginny’s achievement, but Petunia was partially satisfied by Harry’s apparent reluctance to attend. She looked at her husband, who said nothing but nodded grimly.

‘All right,’ Petunia said.

Vernon stared at Harry, his face contorted into an expression of thoughtful cunning. Harry watched in fascination as his uncle schemed. Finally, a triumphant leer lit up Vernon’s face.

‘You can speak to him now,’ Vernon announced, ‘I’ll dial the number for you.’ He stood hurriedly and marched out into the hall.

Harry immediately realised what was happening. His uncle’s plan was simple. Vernon would dial, and if Dudley was out, Harry would hear no more about the offer. If he was at home, then Vernon and Petunia would be able to hear the conversation. Ginny realised too; she stood quickly, took Harry’s cup and watched her boyfriend follow Vernon into the hall.

‘Hullo,’ Harry heard Vernon say. ‘Who’s that?’

Vernon harrumphed disapprovingly.

‘Is Dudley there? It’s his father.’

There was silence for a minute.

‘Hello son, it’s about your birthday,’ there was a long silence. Harry could not hear what Dudley was saying.

‘He’s here.

‘Yes, here! Standing next to me, called in to see us, unannounced, on a ruddy great motorbike. No thought for what the neighbours might think.

‘IT’S NOT FUNNY!

‘Why? He can’t go, we’ve asked him.

‘You don’t need to. I’ve just told you what he said.

‘There’s no need to be like that, Dudley.

‘No, I am NOT lying.’

Vernon sighed and glared at his nephew. His expression was familiar to Harry, although he hadn’t seen it for years. Hatred and contempt were contorting Vernon’s face, making him look even more porcine than usual. He reluctantly handed Harry the telephone.

‘Here,’ Harry’s uncle grumbled. ‘Be quick.’

Harry gingerly took the phone.

‘Dudley?’ he asked.

‘Harry?’ the voice at the other end said. ‘Is it really you?’

‘Yes me, Harry Potter, your cousin,’ Harry babbled. He’d never had a telephone conversation with Dudley, he realised. He didn’t know what to say.

‘Why didn’t you get back in touch with us, after we got home?’ Dudley asked.

‘When you all left, I got the impression that I wouldn’t be welcomed back.’

There was a short sarcastic laugh. ‘You’re probably right,’ Dudley said. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well, thanks, you?’

‘Good. You’ll have to come and visit me some time. You can tell me why you can’t make my twenty-first party.’

‘Yes, that’s right, I’ll be very busy.’

‘Dad’s listening isn’t he?’

‘Certainly.’

‘You should’ve come and seen me instead.’

‘I didn’t know that you weren’t here. Ginny wanted to meet my family, so I brought her over.’

‘Ginny?’ Dudley asked.

‘My girlfriend,’ Harry replied. He had an idea. ‘How far is it to Newcastle from here?’

‘From Mum and Dad’s to here? Dudley asked. ‘About five hours by train, six if the connections are bad.’

‘How far is it in miles, in a straight line?’ Harry asked.

‘Dunno. Around three hundred miles, I think,’ Dudley replied.

‘Give me your address. I’ll be there in less than three hours.’ Harry glanced at Ginny, who smiled and nodded. Uncle Vernon scowled.

‘Great, you can meet my girlfriend and housemates. It’s 298 Tosson Hill Terrace, Newcastle.’ Dudley said. He gave Harry his phone number.

Harry repeated the address and phone number, which Ginny quickly wrote down.

‘Dad will try to persuade you not to come, and he’ll want to ask me why I invited you.’ Dudley said, ‘You’d better give him the phone. See you later, Harry.’

‘I’ll put your Dad back on then,’ Harry said, checking his watch. ‘See you at about four o’clock, Dudley, ‘bye.’

He handed the phone back to Vernon Dursley.

‘Why?’ Uncle Vernon began. But it seemed that Dudley had shut him up. Vernon listened in silence for a few minutes.

‘Well, if that’s what you want,’ Vernon said in a defeated voice.

‘Dudley says that he’ll be expecting you.’ Uncle Vernon said as he hung up the receiver. ‘He says he’s going to try to persuade you to come to his party.’

Vernon glared at Harry, his moustache quivering, ‘But you’re not going to go, are you? I don’t want _you_ there, spoiling my son’s twenty first.’

Harry didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to give a definite answer until after he’d met Dudley. There was a small pad and a pen next to the telephone, Harry picked up the pen and quickly wrote on the pad. He tore off the top sheet, pushed past Vernon, walked back into the living room and handed his aunt the note.

‘Aunt Petunia, I’ll leave you an address and phone number to contact me. Letters to this address, twelve Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, will reach me. If you ever decided to visit,’—Petunia looked horrified at the thought—‘let me know in advance. If you don’t, you won’t be able to find the house. You can leave a message on this telephone number, too. But don’t expect to be able to talk to me.’

‘Why would we want to?’ grumbled Vernon. Harry ignored him and spoke to Ginny.

‘I’m going to Newcastle to visit Dudley. It should take about two-and-a-half hours to get there, if my estimate of the bikes top speed is right. Are you coming?’

‘I wanted to meet your family.’ Ginny nodded, smiling. ‘Two down, one to go.’

‘Two-and-a-half hours!’ Vernon spat, his face reddening. ‘Ridiculous. It will take six or seven, at least.’

Harry stared coolly into his uncle’s face.

‘Remember the flying motorbike I once told you I’d dreamt about, Uncle Vernon?’ he asked. ‘It’s parked outside.’

With that announcement, Uncle Vernon looked as though he was about to explode. Harry decided that it was time to leave. ‘Do you mind if we go now?’ he asked politely. ‘We wouldn’t want to outstay our welcome.’

‘WELCOME!’ Vernon shouted, pulling violently at his moustache. Ginny was having difficulty preventing herself from laughing.

‘I’ll get our jackets,’ she said, while Harry quickly drank the last of his tea and put the cup back on the tray.

Ginny stepped between Harry’s aunt and uncle, the bike jackets in her arms. She handed Harry his jacket and began to put on her own. Vernon and Petunia watched in silence.

‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Ginny said politely. ‘I do hope that we can meet again.’

Vernon and Petunia stood silently in the hallway. Vernon was seething and confused. Harry recognised the problem; his uncle was in a quandary. He desperately wanted Harry gone, but he didn’t want him to visit Dudley.

Harry opened the front door and allowed Ginny to leave first. He stepped outside before turning to his aunt and uncle.

‘Bye, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon,’ he said. ‘See you again soon I expect.’

‘Bye Mr and Mrs…’ Ginny stopped in mid-sentence. Vernon had slammed the front door in Harry’s face.

‘Well …’ Ginny began.

‘That went better than I expected.’ Harry interrupted her. Ginny snorted with laughter, then stopped and looked at him carefully.

‘You mean that, don’t you?’ she asked.

Harry nodded. ‘I did try to warn you, Ginny,’ he said. ‘They’d have been happier if they’d never seen me again.’

‘Ron and George told me that, too, but I didn’t believe them, either. What’s Dudley going to be like?’ she asked.

Harry shrugged; ‘I’ve no idea, he was becoming a bit more human the last time I saw him. He even made me a cup of tea once, and he wished me luck when they left. He seemed quite pleased to hear from me when I spoke to him, too. Who knows?’

‘Your uncle’s neighbours are watching us again,’ Ginny observed.

Vernon’s noisy slamming of the door had obviously attracted their attention. Harry looked around and waved at the staring faces, and the neighbours looked away in embarrassment.

‘Let’s go.’ Harry said, leading Ginny past Vernon’s car. When they reached the bike Harry unlocked the seat and handed Ginny her helmet.

‘They’re really unhappy, aren’t they?’ observed Ginny, looking back at the house. ‘Have they ever done anything spontaneous, enjoyed themselves?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Not that I can remember.’

‘How sad,’ Ginny observed. ‘They aren’t happy, so they don’t see why anyone else should be, either.’

‘I’d never thought of it that way,’ Harry admitted. ‘But, you may be right. There’s nothing I can do for them. I’m happy to leave them to enjoy their misery.’

‘That almost made sense,’ Ginny laughed, she put her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe and kissed him slowly and passionately. Harry slid his arms down her back and cupped her muscular backside in his hands; she twitched her gluteus maximi under his hands, and he squeezed. When they broke apart Harry glimpsed a purple faced Uncle Vernon glaring at them from the living room window. He pretended not to notice, pulled on his helmet, fastened it, and helped Ginny to fasten hers.

After pushing the bike off the centre stand, he kicked the side stand down and flicked out the kick starter. He jumped up, kicked down hard, and the bike roared into life. Reaching down, he pulled out Ginny’s footpeg, kicked up the sidestand, and nodded to her. As he held the bike steady she stepped onto a peg, swung her leg over the bike and sat behind him.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

Ginny slid her hands around his waist, under his jacket and onto his chest. She slid as far forwards as she could, Harry felt her chest pressed against his back, her inner thighs gripping tightly against his buttocks. There certainly were advantages to riding the bike, he thought.

‘Let’s go.’ She was forced to shout over the noise of the engine, and Harry wondered how easy it would be to put a communication charm on the helmets.

Pulling in the clutch, Harry kicked the bike into first gear, gave a cheery wave to Uncle Vernon, and roared off down the road. As soon as the road was clear, he turned on the invisibility booster, pulled the bike into the air, and reduced the engine noise to a magical ticking. As they soared above the streets of Little Whinging Harry looked down in delight, the bike was working perfectly. He checked the compass, and headed due north.


	3. To The North

**To the North**

After more than two hours of flying, Harry was cold and uncomfortable. Behind him, Ginny had been fidgeting for some time. Ignoring the buffeting wind he stood up on the foot pegs and stretched his stiff legs. When he sat back down, Ginny slid her arms back around his chest and hugged him tightly.

They had travelled due north from Little Whinging, not reaching the east coast until they had crossed most of the random patchwork of greens and browns which made up the North York Moors. Harry was now following the coast, and the moors had given way to the industrial smog of Teesside. He found himself flying over oil refineries and chemical plants, a sudden change from the wild and bleak moorland they’d been above only minutes earlier. He knew that if he followed the coast north he’d reach the River Tyne in less than quarter of an hour. Keeping his right hand on the throttle, he took his left off the handlebars and squeezed Ginny’s knee.

‘Not long now,’ he called back over his shoulder. Ginny hugged him again. She didn’t speak, but simply squeezed his thighs between her knees in reply.

Several minutes later, Harry arrived at the river and turned west. The wide river mouth was flanked by yellow sandy beaches and a ruined priory stood, black and jagged, on its north bank. He began his descent. He’d pinpointed Dudley’s street easily on his map, it was next to a large area of railway sidings. He moved north of the river, found the railway line and began to follow it.

‘I hope he’s got the kettle on,’ Ginny shouted, ‘I’m starting to get cold.’

Harry patted her thigh in reply and pointed down.

‘We’re here, I think,’ he called over his shoulder.

The street next to Dudley’s was quiet. Harry slowed the bike to about thirty miles an hour and dropped it onto the ground. While turning the corner into Dudley’s street he simultaneously removed the invisibility booster and switched on the engine noise.

Although the street sign said Tosson Hill Terrace there were no houses, terraced or otherwise, to be seen. Harry rode down the quiet tree lined road. The trees, and thick bushes, screened the railway sidings on the left. There were a few small industrial buildings ahead and on the right several rows of terraced houses stretched off at right angles. Harry slowed and looked for more street signs.

After about a quarter of a mile the main street curved to the right and another road continued straight ahead. Sitting on the wall of a semi-detached house on the corner was Dudley Dursley. There were three other people with him; all four were drinking beer from bottles.

One side of Tosson Hill Terrace was an imposing line of what appeared to be Victorian terraced houses, most in very good repair. On the other side, side where Dudley sat, the properties were newer, and semi-detached. They were probably no more than seventy years old. The street continued off into the distance.

Harry pulled the bike to a halt directly in front of Dudley and his friends. Dudley stood, but did not approach; he was obviously uncertain, which was also how Harry felt. Dudley’s three companions remained seated on the wall, staring curiously at the motorcyclist and his pillion. They all looked to be about Harry’s age. There was a very tall young man with wild, light brown hair and a tangled beard; a tall and skinny girl with short, spiky blonde hair and a long, straight nose; and a thin-faced curly haired young man who was only a couple of inches taller than Ginny.

Dudley watched worriedly. Harry wondered why, then realised that his cousin could not be certain who was under the helmets. Ginny kicked up the foot peg and slid from the bike. Harry hastily lowered the bike onto the side stand and dismounted. They removed their helmets together.

‘Harry,’ Dudley finally smiled in recognition and held out his hand.

‘Hello, Dudley,’ Harry replied shaking his cousin’s hand. In the years since Harry had last seen him, Dudley had changed, he was still a big man, but burly rather than overweight. It looked like his nose had been broken. His blond hair was longer, and he was unshaven. He wore a black rugby-shirt with the word Falcons on the front.

‘Do you play rugby these days, or are you simply a fan?’ Harry asked.

‘I play for the university,’ Dudley said proudly.

‘Ginny,’ Harry said, ‘this is my cousin, Dudley Dursley. Dudley this is my girlfriend, Ginny Weasley.’

They shook hands.

Dudley was staring at Ginny’s hair.

‘Are you related to…’ Dudley began.

‘Harry’s friend, Ron, is one of my many brothers,’ Ginny interrupted, ‘I think I’ve seen you before, at King’s Cross with your Mum and Dad when they were collecting Harry. If I have, you’ve changed.’

Dudley chortled. Harry was disturbed to discover that Dudley’s laugh was disconcertingly like Vernon’s. Behind him the girl noisily cleared her throat.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Dudley. ‘You don’t know this lot.’

Turning, he introduced Harry and Ginny to his friends. The beard belonged to John Pickles; the thin-faced young man was Jamie Garrick, and the blonde girl was Dudley’s girlfriend, Daisy Milburn. After the introductions were made there was an uneasy silence.

‘Do you want a beer?’ Dudley asked, lifting his bottle hopefully.

‘We’ve just spent hours on the bike,’ Harry replied, remembering Ginny’s words as they’d flown above the Tyne, ‘I’d rather have tea, if that’s okay. I need to warm up.’

‘Tea for me, too, please,’ Ginny said.

Dudley looked hopefully at Daisy, but she simply folded her arms and returned his gaze. Dudley gave in.

‘I’ll go and make you some tea then,’ Dudley said. ‘Why don’t you take Harry and Ginny into the garden, Daze. It’s a nice day.’

Daisy nodded.

‘Folla me,’ she said.

She led Ginny and Harry around into a triangular garden at the side of the house. It was unkempt and overgrown. Only a small area of rough grass was in the spring sunshine, the rest, shaded by trees and by the house, was noticeably cooler. There were three old, sun-faded plastic chairs in the garden, Daisy sat on the grass, John and Jamie who had followed, took chairs. Harry and Ginny stood.

‘Si’ doon,’ suggested Daisy, indicating the remaining chair.

‘We’ve been on the bike for hours. Right now, standing is good,’ Harry replied. ‘Have you known Dudley long?’

‘No’ as lang as this twa,’ Daisy spoke rapidly, and nodded at John and Jamie. ‘They’ve been sharing the hoose wi’ Dud since second term o’ uni. Me’n Dud’ve been gannin oot fer aboot six months, we me’ a’ a bonfire par’y las’ year. Wha’ aboot ye twa?’

‘Pardon?’ Harry said, rather taken aback by the speed of her speech and the impenetrability of her accent.

‘Ah’ve been with Dud for six months,’ Daisy tried again, this time talking more slowly and moderating her thick accent. ‘We met at a bonfire party, what about you two?’

‘We’ve been together for four years,’ Ginny said smiling. ‘I was fifteen; we met at school.’

‘Actually,’ said Harry, grinning at Ginny, ‘we first met at Kings Cross Station when you were ten.’

‘And he remembers,’ Ginny laughed.

‘Dudley never talks about ‘is family,’ Daisy said. ‘He’s met me Mam ‘n Da’, but ah’ve never met his. And he’s never mentioned any other family.’

‘I’m it, so far as I know,’ Harry said. ‘Apart from Dudley’s Aunt Marjorie.’

‘Marge?’ Dudley said, as he arrived with two mugs of tea. ‘Please, let’s not talk about Aunt Marge. She’s good for a few quid, but not much else.’

‘This is the only tea we have,’ Dudley said apologetically, ‘Earl Grey, Daisy drinks it. She takes it black but I’ll bring milk and sugar if you want. Except—I think the milk’s off.’

‘Local lad,’ Daisy said.

Harry looked puzzled.

‘Earl Grey! There’s a monument to him in the Toon,’ she explained.

‘Town,’ Dudley translated.

Harry and Ginny sipped the hot, perfumed black tea, glanced at each other, and decided that neither milk nor sugar were required.

They spent a pleasant hour in the garden making small talk. During a rambling conversation Harry and Ginny discovered a lot about Dudley, his house mates and girlfriend.

Jamie was on the same course (Mechanical Engineering) as Dudley and, like Harry’s cousin, he was a southerner, a Londoner. Jamie said very little and spent most of his time gazing at Ginny’s chest. As a consequence, Harry decided that he didn’t like him much.

John was a Computer Science student. Ginny nodded wisely at this, but Harry realised that he’d be doing a lot of explaining later, not that he knew much about the topic himself. Dudley called John “the mad Yorkshireman” and John did his best to live up to this description, rattling off a series of bad jokes and terrible puns. He soon discovered that he’d met his match in Ginny, whose dry wit had them all laughing.

Daisy was, as she put it, a local lass. She wasn’t a student, but worked “just up the road at the Ministry” as a clerk. She shared a flat with another girl a few miles away. Both Harry and Ginny had a lot of problems with her accent, she seemed to have an aversion to the letter ‘t’, which she dropped at every opportunity. Dudley would teasingly provide translations for the newcomers. For her part, Daisy accepted Dudley’s translations with a good natured smile.

When the conversation turned to Harry, he used his usual cover story. He told them that he worked for the Home Office in the Auror Office, an office, he explained, which monitored police statistics nationally. It was close enough to the truth, and boring enough that no one asked him any questions. Ginny claimed to be a shop assistant, simple and easy.

When they’d first started frequenting Muggle London together Harry had suggested that she claim to be a professional footballer. That idea had gone disastrously wrong the only time they’d tried it. It took them only seconds to realise that neither of them knew anything about football. When asked, both had showed complete ignorance of the offside rule, and neither was able to make any sensible comments about whether the golden goal was a good idea. At a DA reunion, months later, they’d discussed the incident. Dean Thomas had enthusiastically attempted to explain the finer points of the game. He’d given up only when Ginny had looked him straight in the eyes and thanked him for reminding her how boring his football conversations had always been.

As the conversation continued, Harry was surprised to discover how ordinary Dudley was. He was far from the arrogant, selfish bully Harry had grown up with. It was even possible to hold a relatively normal conversation with him. Dudley and Harry’s relationship as children was much discussed by both Daisy and Ginny. Both Harry and his cousin were circumspect, but there was no doubt that Dudley, unlike his father, had changed.

When the sun dropped behind the houses the temperature in the garden dropped quickly. As it got colder they went indoors, and Harry got his first look at Dudley’s house. The living room was extremely untidy, with clothes, textbooks, dirty cups and plates scattered about the room. Harry looked around in astonishment.

‘Your mum wouldn’t like this mess,’ he observed.

‘She came up at Christmas, and went absolutely crazy! She spent three days tidying up.’ Dudley grinned. He cleared the sofa by simply picking up the clothes scattered across it and throwing them into the corner of the room.

Once they sat, the conversation finally turned to Dudley’s twenty-first birthday party.

‘It’s two months away, on a Saturday,’ said Dudley. ‘Mum and Dad are desperate to organise something for me.’

‘You should hev a ceilidh,’ Daisy announced, ‘Ah like ceilidh’s.’

‘They’re a bit owd fashioned,’ John announced.

‘But they ge’ folk dancin’, John,’ argued Daisy. She turned to Dudley. ‘If yer mam ‘n’ da’r gannin, Dud, they’re bound te wanna dance an’ aal.’

‘Mum and Dad are going, but I’d be amazed if they’ll want to dance,’ said Dudley, both replying to, and translating the end of Daisy’s sentence. ‘Can you imagine Mum and Dad dancing, Harry?’ He chuckled, and Harry joined in the laughter.

‘Aye, well, they might surprise you,’ said Daisy cheerfully.

Harry watched the skinny blonde girl carefully. She was sitting on the arm of a chair, grinning down at Dudley, and poking him. Petunia and Vernon would hate Daisy, he realised; she was a friendly chatterbox with an almost impenetrable accent.

‘Why can’t you come?’ Dudley asked Harry.

‘Because your mum and dad don’t want us,’ Ginny replied. ‘Your dad made that very clear.’

Dudley shrugged. ‘They don’t want this lot to go, either,’ he nodded at his flatmates. ‘I’ve no idea who _they_ will want to invite. Marge, of course, and Piers and his parents, I expect. But I haven’t spoken to Piers in more than three years. I don’t see why they should decide who goes. Although it would be nice if Dad would cough up the cash for a proper party.’

‘Just tell ‘em, Dud,’ advised Daisy. ‘After all, you told your Dad that you wanted to see Harry, and he should stop rabbiting on about him.’

‘Sod it, I will,’ said Dudley. ‘If Mum and Dad are going to decide who to invite it won’t be _my_ party, will it? I’m going to invite the people I want. Give me your address, Harry, and I’ll send you an invitation. My birthday is on a Saturday, so that’s when it should be.’

‘Which Saturday, when?’ Ginny asked.

‘Twenty-third of June,’ said Harry and Dudley simultaneously.

‘I’m surprised you remember,’ said Dudley.

‘I could hardly forget. That was the day used to get your hand-me-downs, remember?’ said Harry with a little more sarcasm than he’d intended.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Dudley, looking rather embarrassed. ‘Will you come, anyway?’

‘I’d be annoying your Mum and Dad, and apart from you lot, I wouldn’t know anyone,’ Harry mumbled, but despite his concerns, he gave Dudley the address and phone number he’d given to Aunt Petunia.

‘Oh, come on, Harry,’ Ginny cajoled him. ‘Twenty-one, you can make an exception for a twenty-first birthday. I’ll be able to go, there’s no matches scheduled for that day, and there won’t be, because I’m playing on Sunday the twenty-fourth. I’m sure that you can switch shifts, even if you’re supposed to be at work.’

‘Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia will go mad,’ Harry announced, still unsure.

‘Bring that friend of yours, too, Ginny’s brother,’ Dudley suggested.

‘Thanks, Dudley.’ Ginny smiled gratefully. ‘That’s one more reason for us to come. I’ll tell Ron that he’s got to go. Between us we can persuade Harry to come. But Ron won’t come without Hermione.’

‘That will be another job, persuading Hermione to come. She’ll have important reports to write,’ observed Harry wryly.

‘It’s my job to persuade you to have some fun occasionally, Potter,’ Ginny told him. ‘And it’s Ron’s to persuade Hermione. He can do it, you know he can.’

‘So, you’ll come?’ Dudley asked.

‘Definitely,’ Ginny said, as Harry gave a non-committal grunt.

‘I’ll get him there, don’t worry,’ Ginny grinned as Dudley looked uncertainly between them.

‘Right, good,’ Dudley said. ‘Er, do you want to stay for dinner? I don’t think that we’ve got much in, but we could get a take-away. You could even, er, stay overnight and go back tomorrow. It’d be sleeping bags on the floor in here I’m afraid.’

Harry looked at Ginny. ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.

‘We can’t really stay over,’ said Ginny apologetically. ‘We need to be at Mum and Dad’s tomorrow. It’s Easter Sunday and we’re having a big family reunion. My brother Charlie is over from Romania; he’s only here for a few days. And one of my other brothers—Percy—is bringing his fiancée to meet Charlie, because he’s the only one of us Audrey hasn’t met. We would be in real trouble if we weren’t there. We should get back to Harry’s tonight, but we don’t need to leave until later.’

Ginny turned to Harry. She opened her eyes wide, wrinkled her nose, and pouted. ‘I don’t know about you, Harry, but I am getting hungry.’ She leaned in close, teasing him. ‘If you love me, you will wine and dine me.’

‘How can I resist?’ asked Harry.

Ginny kissed him triumphantly. ‘You can’t. I promised you that today would work out okay. I was right, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ Harry admitted grudgingly.

‘We’ll take you out to for a meal, Dudley, our treat,’ said Ginny.

‘She means my treat,’ Harry explained, ‘Ginny never has any Mug—ney.’

Harry turned to Dudley’s flatmates.

‘I haven’t seen Dud for a few years, do you mind if Ginny and I take him out for a meal?’

‘And Daisy,’ said Dudley in response to a firm poke from the blonde girl.

‘Of course,’ said Ginny. ‘If you two are going to talk about old times, I demand a girl friend.’

‘Great,’ Daisy said. ‘What d’yer fancy? Chinese? Indian? Italian? Or maybe something a bit different?’

‘You’re the local, you decide, Daisy,’ suggested Harry.

‘Stowell Street,’ Daisy said.

Harry looked at Dudley, puzzled.

‘It’s full of Chinese restaurants,’ Dudley explained, ‘I’ll just get my jacket, it’s a ten minute walk up to Chilli’ Road Metro.’

The Metro, Harry and Ginny discovered when they arrived there a quarter of an hour later, was Newcastle’s rapid transit system. They bought tickets and caught the next train into the city centre. Dudley and Daisy argued about the best place to get off. Dudley suggested St. James’, as it was the closest stop to Stowell Street, Daisy suggested the stop before; she wanted Harry and Ginny could see “the monument” and walk past “the square”. When Ginny agreed with Daisy, Dudley immediately capitulated.

Daisy was an enthusiastic advocate for her home (she said “hyem”) city and on the short walk from the Metro station she showed them Earl Grey’s monument and pointed out the magnificent buildings of Grainger town. The city’s stunning Georgian architecture was named for its designer, but the name brought peals of laughter from Ginny and a confused look from Daisy and Dudley. Daisy bemoaned the 1970’s shopping centre which had been dumped in its centre and insisted that they walk the length of Stowell Street to see the city walls. When they reached the walls she tried to persuade them to double back to visit the site of the castle which had given the city it’s name more than nine hundred years earlier. But by then everyone else was hungry, so instead of a trip to the keep they returned to a fine, and expensive, Chinese restaurant.

Harry was glad of Daisy’s company over the meal, as he discovered that he and Dudley had little in common. They very rapidly ran out of things to talk about. Dudley was happy to criticise his parents. But Harry, although he agreed with most of Dudley’s comments, was uncomfortable to discover that this was the easiest topic of conversation for them. As the conversation began to peter out, Daisy provided a distraction.

‘Dudley already knows,’ she said confidentially, leaning over the table to tell them. ‘I’m a witch.’

Dudley caught Harry’s eyes and shook his head frantically when she made the announcement.

‘Really?’ Ginny asked, ‘where…’

‘What sort of witch?’ Harry hastily interrupted his girlfriend. ‘The kind that sticks pins in effigies, or the kind that dances naked under the light of the full moon?’

Daisy looked affronted. Ginny looked puzzled and seemed about to ask for an explanation. Harry quietened her with a glance.

‘Neither,’ said Daisy, huffily, ‘I’m surprised at you Harry, bigoted stereotypes, that’s all _they_ are.’

‘It would be silly to dance naked under a full moon,’ Ginny observed as she realised what was going on. ‘After all, there could be werewolves about.’

‘Just because I believe in magic,’ Daisy rounded on Ginny angrily. ‘It doesn’t mean I believe in werewolves, or vampires, or…’

‘Trolls?’ Harry asked. ‘Sorry, Daisy, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ve done some research on witchcraft for my job. A lot of this stuff is just fakery, designed to part people from their money.’

Harry glanced at Dudley, who was looking very uncomfortable.

‘Dudley’s Mum and Dad hate all this magic stuff, you know,’ he continued confidentially. ‘If you ever meet his parents, don’t say anything to them. They’ll go mad, won’t they, Dud?’ Dudley nodded gratefully.

‘They hate anything out of the ordinary, or different,’ Dudley told her, while spooning shredded chilli beef into his rice bowl. Daisy waved her chopsticks angrily.

‘Why?’ she asked.

Dudley looked at Harry in horror.

‘It’s a long story,’ Harry said. ‘But basically my Mum, Dud’s mum’s sister, was a witch and she and Aunt Petunia fell out over it. It was a family quarrel that happened before Dud and I were born.’

‘Yeah, that’s about it,’ Dudley confirmed, glancing gratefully at Harry.

‘Had Mum not died, she might have made up with Petunia, but it’s still a sore topic for the Dursleys,’ explained Harry. Dudley nodded, finished a third beer and ordered a fourth.

‘I don’t have any problems, but the Dursleys will; just remember that,’ Harry told Daisy, helping himself to some sweet and sour pork.

‘Can I ask a question?’ Ginny looked curiously at Daisy. ‘How do you learn to be a witch?’

‘There’s a shop in town,’ Daisy explained. ‘They sell all sorts of magic stuff. Books, scented candles, lotions, potions, crystal balls, tea leaf reading kits, tarot cards.’

‘Divination!’ Ginny gave a dismissive snort as she reached for the plate of chilli beef and spooned some into her rice bowl.

‘Ginny doesn’t think much of the subtle art of divination,’ Harry interrupted, smiling. ‘So, what’s this shop called?’

‘Witchcraft,’ Daisy said.

‘Spelt W-Y-T-C-H-C-R-A-E-F-T,’ Dudley added, rolling his eyes, ‘Daisy left a brochure in my bedroom last weekend.’

Ginny smiled and lifted a mouthful of chilli beef and rice with her chopsticks.

‘The shop’s run by a lass called Millie Flynn. She owns the place with her husband. You should take a look…’ Daisy was interrupted by a gasp from Ginny, who had tears rolling down her cheeks. She grabbed her beer and downed the glass in one. 

‘Sorry,’ she gasped as everyone stared at her. ‘That chilli beef is all chilli.’

Dudley laughed. ‘That’s why I like this place. You’d best watch out, it’s a “bum-burner” that one, it’s just as hot when it comes out the other end.’

Ginny grimaced in distaste.

‘This is where the rugby team come after a match,’ Daisy explained to Ginny rolling her eyes, ‘I’ve only been a couple of times. They get very drunk and make a lot of fart jokes. Boys!’

‘Girls who play sport aren’t much better, in my experience,’ Harry replied, making Ginny blush.

‘Yeah,’ Daisy said. ‘What’s with the weird England shirt, anyway Harry? And why “Weasley Chaser”? Didn’t you say you had a match the day after Dud’s birthday, Ginny? D’you play footie?’ 

The shirt, Harry realised suddenly, had been a bad idea.

‘Ginny got selected to play for England …’ Harry began. He stopped, wondering what to say next. A half remembered conversation with an American wizard sprang to mind.

‘Do you know anything about baseball?’ he asked Daisy and Dudley. Daisy shook her head.

‘Rounders,’ Dudley exclaimed, loudly and knowledgably showing his prejudice. ‘It’s a girls’ game, renamed by the Yanks and played by blokes.’

Satisfied that he was on safe ground Harry continued.

‘There is an England ladies baseball team, and Ginny made the squad. Her brother George got the shirt for me, but he had the word chaser added under Ginny’s name. He’s been calling me “the weedy kid who chases Ginny’” for years. He thought writing Weasley Chaser on the back was a good joke.’

Ginny raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Harry agreed with her assessment, as excuses went, it was rubbish. However, to their surprise, it worked. Dudley changed the subject to rugby and then complained about how American Football, was a ridiculous game and that rugby was much more interesting, entertaining, and physically demanding.

Grateful for the change of subject Harry simply allowed Dudley to vociferously express his biases. He soon realised that Dudley still shared some traits with his father. In fact, Dudley complained for so long that an extremely bored Daisy called a halt.

‘Shut up, Dud; you’re being a prat,’ she told him.

‘Okay, sorry,’ he said.

By then, the meal was over. Harry, Ginny and Daisy were enjoying a drink of jasmine tea while Dudley drank another beer. Harry pulled his pocket watch from his jacket pocket, it was almost ten o’clock.

‘It’s going to be really late when we get home,’ Harry said to Ginny, ‘even if we set off now.’

He caught the waitress’s eye and asked for the bill. Dudley and Daisy reached for cash, but Harry protested, and waved their money away.

‘I said this was my treat,’ he reminded them as he peeled several twenty pound notes from his wallet.

‘Can you afford …’ Dudley began, hesitantly. It was obvious to Harry that the meal would be a huge expense for Dudley, and probably Daisy, but that they felt it only polite to offer to pay.

‘My Mum and Dad left me a lot of money, so did my godfather …’ he began.

‘Harry has lots of money, and he never spends it,’ Ginny interrupted. ‘Just let him pay, I’m going to!’

Harry looked at the bill.

‘No problem,’ he said as they stood and prepared to leave, ‘I’ll take care of it.’

‘Thanks Harry,’ Daisy said. ‘That’s really good of you.’

‘Yeah, thanks, Harry,’ Dudley said shyly to his cousin as he took Daisy’s hand and led her from the restaurant.

Ginny linked her arm through Harry’s and leaned in towards him.

‘You got a “thanks”,’ she pointed out in a whisper. ‘That’s better than his Dad. He’s a bit boring, your cousin, but no worse than some of mine.’

‘Which of your cousins are boring?’ Harry smiled as he asked her the question. He knew what her answer would be, as he was feeding her the straight line for an old private joke.

‘Barney, he’s a real stick in the mud,’ smiled Ginny. ‘He didn’t dance with me at Bill’s wedding, I hoped he would.’

‘I told you, he was scared about what Ron might say,’ Harry gave his standard reply almost by rote as he slid his arm around Ginny’s waist and kissed her.

‘Thanks for today, Harry,’ said Ginny. ‘I know you didn’t want to do this, but we’ve tested the bike, and I’ve met your family. It hasn’t been too bad, has it?’

‘No,’ Harry admitted. ‘It hasn’t.’

Arms around each other, they followed Dudley and Daisy past a noisy and busy pub and up towards the nearest Metro station, behind which stood the large glass and steel bulk of St James’ Park football ground. They walked down the steps to the underground Metro station. It was almost deserted.

‘Much too early for folk t’ be gannin hyem,’ Daisy said. ‘The Toon’ll be busy ‘til the small hours, especially aroond the Bigg Market and the Quayside.’

‘Night clubs,’ Dudley explained. ‘Lot’s of people wearing not many clothes and getting very drunk.’

‘Did that last year, but I didn’t like it,’ said Ginny. ‘Neither did Harry.’

When the tram arrived Ginny sat on Harry’s knee, despite the fact that there were plenty of seats. Possibly because of this Daisy did the same with Dudley. The journey back was quiet. Daisy and Dudley sat opposite Harry and Ginny, but they were too busy snogging to talk. Harry watched them for a few seconds before looking out of the window. There was nothing to see except the walls of the tunnels until they reached the second station, where the tram moved above ground.

As they rattled along Harry and Ginny watched the lights of another Muggle city rushing past. It wasn’t as busy and bustling as London, but there was a definite vibrancy about the place. As he watched the streets, Harry thought that he could understand why Dudley had stayed. He also knew why Vernon and Petunia had hated the place. The accents were impenetrable and, worse, everyone said hello. The people were much too friendly for the Dursleys.

When they reached their destination Dudley and Daisy led them up from the station and past another busy pub.

‘That’s our local,’ Dudley said, ‘I don’t suppose you want a pint before you go. John ‘n Jamie will be there.’

‘I’m driving,’ Harry replied.

Dudley looked disappointed. ‘Oh well, maybe next time,’ he said.

The four slowly walked the length of Tosson Hill Terrace. When they reached Dudley’s house Daisy invited them in for coffee. Harry looked at Ginny for guidance.

‘Thanks, Daisy,’ Ginny said. ‘But no thanks. I think we’d better be going. We’ve a long way to go.’

As they stood outside, next to the bike, Harry found it difficult to know exactly what to say to his cousin. Dudley hadn’t been unpleasant, but they seemed to have exhausted all topics of conversation. He wondered what they could talk about if they met again.

‘We should try to keep in touch,’ Dudley said.

‘Yes,’ Ginny agreed.

‘You’ve got my address,’ Harry told Dudley. ‘And you’ve got phone numbers too.’

‘’We’ll see you at your birthday party, if not before,’ Ginny told Dudley. ‘Bye, Dudley; bye, Daisy.’

They put on their helmets. Harry started the bike, and with a wave they roared off into the night as Dudley and his girlfriend waved goodbye.


	4. The Burrow (Mostly)

**4\. The Burrow (Mostly)**

It was well after midnight when Harry and Ginny finally returned to number twelve Grimmauld Place. Exhausted and rather saddle-sore from the long journey to Newcastle and back they gratefully accepted the cups of hot chocolate Kreacher had waiting for them. As they sat side by side on the sofa in his sitting room Harry slipped his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder and gave her a hug.

‘You were right, Ginny’ he said as she leant into him and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I didn’t want to go. But I’m glad that I did, and I’m really glad that you were there with me. Thank you.’

‘I’m glad I was there, too,’ Ginny told him. ‘It was ... interesting. Your relatives are...’ She hesitated; she was lost for words, something which rarely happened.

‘Horrible?’ Harry asked.

Ginny stifled a laugh, and snuggled in closer. ‘It’s obvious that Vernon is never going to like you,’ she said quietly and candidly. ‘I’m not sure about Petunia, but Dudley really does want to keep in touch with you. He’s okay, you know. He’s certainly no worse than some of my cousins.’ She yawned. ‘It’s been a long day, much longer than I expected. Let’s go to bed.’

‘Good idea,’ Harry said as he too yawned. The moment he lifted his arm from her shoulder, she stood and stretched.

‘It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow, too,’ she said.

‘And Monday, too,’ he reminded her.

* * *

To Harry, it seemed as though it was only moments later when he was woken by someone knocking on his bedroom door.

‘What?’ he grumbled.

‘Harry,’ Hermione shouted. ‘It’s half past nine, we need to be setting off for the Burrow soon. Is Ginny in Beaumaris, or is she with you?’

‘Go away, Hermione!’ Ginny replied.

‘It’s half past nine,’ Hermione repeated.

‘We’ll be down in a few minutes,’ Harry called, yawning. ‘Put the kettle on, please.’

‘I suppose we should be grateful that she’s stopped bursting into your room,’ Ginny murmured.

‘After the last time, I don’t suppose she’ll ever do _that_ again,’ said Harry.

‘I hope not,’ said Ginny, smirking.

Stretching like a cat, Ginny slid out of his bed. She continued to stretch as she walked over to the door. Harry watched his girlfriend as she slowly strolled across to the door with libidinousness inducing languor. He somehow overcame the urge to drag her back into bed and simply watched her backside vanish from view as she pulled on her dressing gown.

A few minutes later, Harry stumbled into his kitchen in his dressing gown, he was still unshaven. Ron was sitting at the table, relaxed and drinking tea; Hermione was sitting next to him, and her expression showed Harry that she was beginning to panic.

‘We should be going! You know that Molly likes us to be there by one o’clock, and it’s a three hour drive,’ Hermione reminded him anxiously.

‘Just relax, Hermione. It’s Harry, remember? You know that Mum lets _him_ get away with anything.’ Ron grinned as he poured a cup of tea for his friend.

‘If you’re worried about being late, Hermione, just go,’ Harry told her. ‘Ginny and I can follow you on the bike. It’s much faster than your car.’ He pulled out a chair and sat, facing his friends across the table. Thanks, Ron,’ he added picking up the green mug which Ron had poured for him. ‘My favourite mug.’

Ron looked grimly at the mug, which bore the legend: “Harpies: League Champions 1999/2000”, and shook his head in annoyance.

‘I may have to buy a new one at the end of this season, too,’ Harry added. ‘League champions two years running. Admittedly the final league game against Tutshill isn’t a foregone conclusion, but at least the Harpies are playing at home.’

‘There’s more to Quidditch than good results,’ said Ron unhappily. His team, Chudley Cannons, were simply hoping to avoid finishing last in the league.

Harry took pity on his friend and, after taking a gulp of tea, he changed the subject. Leaning back in his chair he told his friends about the visits he and Ginny had made to the Dursleys. As he spoke, he could see Hermione glancing anxiously at the clock. It was approaching ten when he finished his tale, and his tea.

‘I told you to visit them years ago, just after the battle! That’s almost three years ago,’ Hermione scolded. ‘Honestly, Harry! Why did it take you so long?’

‘He wasn’t ready, Hermione.’ Ginny’s said decisively as she scampered down the stairs into the kitchen. ‘And having met them, I can understand why. But now we’ve visited, I’m sure we’ll see them again. We can all expect an invitation to Dudley’s twenty-first birthday party. And we’re all going!’

Harry turned and watched as Ginny breezed into the kitchen. She brought with her the scent of flowers and a bright cheeriness. She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and looked clean, fresh, wide awake and beautiful. He smiled contentedly at her.

‘You,’ Ginny ordered, pointing at him. ‘Washed, dressed and shaved, now.’ There was a teasing tone in her order, but Harry knew that she was right. They needed to leave soon.

‘Yes, boss.’ Harry winked at his girlfriend, put his empty mug on the table, and left. He hadn’t had any breakfast, but he could afford to miss it. They had eaten late last night; and he knew from years of experience that Molly would start feeding them the second they arrived.

When Harry returned to the kitchen, showered, shaved, and dressed, Ron was the only one there.

‘You were bloody ages in that shower. Hermione was desperate to leave, and she was starting to panic, you know what she’s like,’ Ron said apologetically. ‘Because you were taking so long, the girls left twenty minutes ago. Ginny says that I’ve got to tell you that she’s taken your Easter eggs, so don’t waste time looking for them. Hermione’s got ours, too. I said I’d wait, for you. I mean, we can get to The Burrow in an instant, if we want.’

‘Yeah, I was thinking I’d just Apparate over. What’s the fuss about the car?’ Harry asked.

‘I knew you weren’t listening properly when she told you on Wednesday night,’ said Ron, shaking his head in despair. ‘Hermione’s dad’s sister and her husband emigrated to Canada years ago. They’re over to visit, and they are staying with John and Jean. They arrived yesterday, and they “simply have to meet” Hermione’s boyfriend, and the “old school friends” they’ve heard so much about.’

‘I’d remembered about her aunt and uncle’s visit,’ Harry protested. ‘But what’s that got to do with—oh, of course—we won’t be able to Apparate to the Grangers, will we?’

‘Exactly, magically arriving in the back garden, like we usually do, isn’t an option,’ Ron reminded his friend. ‘They’re called Alan and Geraldine Barker, and they’re Muggles. They have a son and a daughter, both older than Hermione. The last time I saw the Grangers, Jean told me that they’re a really nice couple. But I think she’s still rather worried. She wants us to be on our best behaviour.’

‘We always are,’ said Harry.

‘If Jean says they’re nice, they probably are,’ said Ron. ‘But I think Jean really meant “don’t make any slip ups.” You’re lucky that tomorrow is a one-off for you and Ginny. I’ll be seeing them loads more times; they’re here for a month. Think of all of the opportunities I’ll have to do, or say, something stupid.’

‘I hope you can cope,’ said Harry sympathetically. ‘Just be careful, Ron. Hermione won’t be happy if she’s forced to Obliviate her relatives. John and Jean won’t like it, either. But these days you’re much more at home in the Muggle world, mate.’ He picked up his dragonskin jacket and pulled it on. ‘Are you going to Apparate, use the Floo network, or do you want a lift on the bike?’

‘Reckon you can catch them on the bike?’ Ron asked.

‘Easily,’ Harry grinned. ‘It can fly, remember?’

‘I don’t know why Hermione won’t let us enchant her car,’ said Ron. ‘We’d never be late if it could fly and turn invisible.’

‘It’s her car, and her decision.’ Harry reminded his friend. ‘Besides, her mobile phone wouldn’t work in the car if she did. Remember the last time she brought her phone into this place? She had to buy a new battery.’

‘She doesn’t actually need that phone, not now that we’ve figured out how to connect the Mirrorphones to the Muggle telephone system,’ said Ron.

‘It’s not a good connection, Ron, and we have to go through an operator in the Ministry so it isn’t secure, either. I hope George will be able to solve the connection problem with the Mark Seven. After all, you’re both making a fortune off the things.’

‘Yeah, but unless we can sell people an improved version, we’ll eventually run out of customers,’ said Ron. ‘Do you know that in the past six months seventy-five percent of all witches and wizards under the age of twenty-one have bought one. It’s incredible how much money we’re making.’

‘You could quit, you know,’ Harry told him. ‘We can cope without you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ron sarcastically. ‘You aren’t indispensable, either, you know! But a promise is a promise. I said I’d stay until we capture Goyle, and I am. George understands, he’d be very annoyed if I didn’t.’

Harry picked up Ginny’s helmet and handed it to Ron. ‘We’d better go. You’ll probably need to put a stretching spell on this, bighead.’

* * *

They were flying over Ilminster when they spotted Hermione’s car in the distance. Harry flew down onto a quiet side road just ahead of the Mini, and turned off the invisibility booster. As they roared up to a junction, Hermione drove past on the main road. Harry pulled out onto the main road and kicked the bike up through the gears, accelerating hard. As he did so, Ron laughed.

‘Flying on the bike was great, but this is bloody brilliant,’ Ron yelled as the ground flashed past beneath his feet.

They hurtled along the road, ignoring the speed limit, and soon caught up to their girlfriends. Both young men waved as they tore past the Mini and thundered off into the distance.

Ten minutes later, just after Honiton, Harry pulled off the dual carriageway. They followed the narrow country lane which ran parallel to the main road for a few miles before finally turning left and heading to the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole. Just before they reached the village itself, Harry turned into the narrow overgrown lane which led to The Burrow.

The lane was little more than two wheel tracks and Harry was forced to slow down. As they approached the gate, he lifted the bike into the air. They cleared the weatherworn wooden gate by a couple of feet, and Harry landed the bike some fifty yards from the gate, on the gravel yard outside The Burrow. Even before he had stopped the bike, the kitchen door had opened and Arthur was striding excitedly towards them. Ginny’s father was closely followed by Bill.

‘Well?’ Arthur asked eagerly.

‘It’s brilliant, Dad,’ said Ron.

‘It looks and sounds like a motorbike, it flies really well, and the invisibility booster work perfectly,’ Harry added. ‘Ginny and I took it on a long journey yesterday.’

‘It’s amazing on the ground, too,’ Ron added. ‘You feel like you’re going really fast, even if you’re only doing seventy miles an hour, it’s brilliant.’

‘You’ve already said that once, Ron,’ Bill said. ‘And it’s obvious from the stupid grin on your face that you think “it’s brilliant”.’

They were still discussing the bike ten minutes later, when Hermione and Ginny arrived. Harry, who’d been listening out for Ginny’s arrival, heard the echo of the engine as the car approached. He left the Weasley men clustered around the bike and dashed across to the five-bar gate which he’d recently flown over. It was some distance from the yard, and he wasn’t quite quick enough. By the time he reached the gate, Hermione had stopped her car, and Ginny had climbed out from it. As he reached the gate and unlatched it, Ginny leaned into the car, and spoke.

‘Just go, I’ll walk back with Harry,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Hermione, I’ll tell him,’ she added as she closed the car door. Harry pulled open the gate, and waved Hermione through with a bow and a flourish. Hermione, however, didn’t seem to be amused.

‘Hermione thinks that you were driving much too fast, and that your overtaking manoeuvre was dangerous. I’ve promised her that I’ll tell you off,’ said Ginny by way of greeting, as she followed the car through the gate. She raised her hand and wagged an admonishing finger. ‘Never do that again—within sight of Hermione,’ she told him with a wink. Harry grinned, and closed the gate.

‘Don’t let Hermione catch me doing something she doesn’t approve of. Got it,’ he said.

‘I’m really very disappointed in you, Harry,’ Ginny told him seriously. ‘I thought you’d learned that lesson years ago.’

Harry laughed. ‘When I’m enjoying myself, I forget,’ he said.

He turned, leaned against the gate, and took in the scene. Ginny grabbed his shoulders, kissed him, and then moved alongside him and slipped her arm around his waist. He reciprocated and they looked over the family scene being enacted in front of them.

‘My house in Beaumaris is nice, but in a lot of ways this is still my home,’ Ginny said contentedly, ‘especially when all of the family are here.’

Molly’s extended family had a standing invitation to Sunday lunch at the Burrow once a fortnight. Harry, Ginny, Ron, Hermione and George rarely missed this opportunity for a big family meal. Percy, together with Bill, Fleur and Victoire were also regular, though not quite so frequent, attendees. Charlie, however, only made it across from Romania for special occasions, like today, Easter Sunday.

The Weasleys’ eccentric and rather ramshackle home was about a hundred yards from where Harry and Ginny stood and watched. The Burrow was nestled in a hollow, and bathed in spring sunshine. On the hill behind the house the orchard was beginning to blossom, creating an idyllic scene. The Weasley clan was gathering on the gravel yard in front of the kitchen door. Harry let out a contented murmur as he leaned against the gate in the arms of his girl. He watched her family, the only family he had, and wondered whether he would ever be so relaxed and comfortable in the presence of the Dursleys. Ginny seemed to sense his mood, as she squeezed his waist in reassurance.

Fleur, with little Victoire cradled on her hip, had joined Bill and Arthur next to the bike. They were followed from The Burrow by Charlie.

‘Charlie’s here!’ said Ginny delightedly. ‘I bet he’s already scrounged some food from Mum.’

As Harry watched, Bill took the newest Weasley from his wife’s arms and sat the little girl on the bike. Charlie was pulling faces at Victoire. Arthur, his arms flailing enthusiastically, was obviously expounding on something to Fleur. Harry was confident that it would almost certainly be something technical, which Arthur didn’t actually understand himself, but he knew that wouldn’t prevent him from attempting to explain it. Fleur was smiling and nodding with the polite and attentive grace which only she could muster.

Ron had walked over to greet Hermione and they were standing next to her car. He’d been smiling as he’d approached. Now, from his stance and hers, it was obvious that he was being berated by his girlfriend.

‘Don’t blame me, Hermione. It’s Harry’s fault. He was driving, and it was his idea to land behind you and to overtake you at ninety miles an hour,’ said Ginny in a fair approximation of her brother’s tone. As she spoke, Ron’s defensive stance vanished, and Hermione appeared flustered. ‘But, you know, you’re bloody gorgeous when you’re annoyed,’ Ginny added, still mimicking Ron.

Harry chuckled. ‘He’s obviously said something to knock her off her stride, but “bloody gorgeous”? I don’t know about that.’

There was a distant popping noise, and they both looked up to the orchard.

‘Perce and Audrey,’ said Ginny, surprised. ’They’re very late, for them at least. It’s a little after one.’

They both watched Percy and his fiancée Audrey Midgen move out from under the trees. Percy’s hands were clasped behind his back, and he was striding away from his girlfriend.

‘Have I told you about the new Ministry parchment order, I masterminded, Audrey? Don’t dawdle, please,’ said Harry, joining in his girlfriend’s game and suggesting dialogue for her bespectacled brother. As he spoke, Percy stopped, and moved his hands. Audrey caught up, and, to Harry’s astonishment smacked Percy’s bottom.

‘I weren’t dawdling, I were trying to admire yer arse, but yer hands were covering it, ye daft sod,’ Ginny provided as she tried to mimic Audrey’s Yorkshire accent. They both burst out laughing.

‘Time to go and say hello,’ said Ginny. She took Harry’s hand and they left their vantage point at the gate. As they strolled forwards, they were still chuckling.

‘I wonder if George is here yet?’ asked Harry as they walked hand-in-hand towards Ginny’s family.

‘Definitely not,’ said Ginny. ‘If he was, he’d be looking at the bike with the others.’

‘I hope he doesn’t bring Romilda again,’ said Harry, shuddering.

‘You’re only saying that because of the bet,’ Ginny teased. ‘The money is yours, and you know it is. He wouldn’t dare bring her back, especially not at Easter. Mum would kill him.’ Ginny paused. ‘Actually, there would be a queue to kill him, and I think Dad would be first. He actually went to the shop last week and “had a word” with George about his female guests. He might come alone.’

As they approached the others, Charlie turned and strolled over to greet them. He held out a hand, which Harry took.

‘Hello, Harry,’ Charlie said as they shook hands. Charlie’s hand was calloused and his grip was firm. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Hello, Charlie, it’s been a while,’ Harry replied. ‘How are things in Romania?’

‘Fine,’ said Charlie. ‘That friend of yours is settling in, but I don’t think he’ll stay.’

‘I don’t think Justin wants a career as a dragon-handler,’ said Harry.

‘He doesn’t. He’s simply either seeing the wizarding world, or avoiding one, or more, of his exes,’ said Ginny. She stepped up to her brother and poked his stomach. ‘Hello dragon-boy, you’re getting fat. You only visit at Christmas and Easter! It would make Mum very happy if you came home more often.’

‘Hello, Harpy,’ said Charlie as he pulled his sister into a bone-crushing hug. ‘Still cheeking your betters, I see! Why should I always be the one to travel? You could always come and visit me. I’ve invited Mum and Dad; they’re thinking about it. Let’s face it, these days they can afford a proper holiday.’

As he spoke there was another popping noise in the distance, and they all looked up the hill towards the orchard.

‘Blimey!’ said Harry.

‘Angelina,’ Ginny said, as she looked at the young woman accompanying George down the hill.

‘Angelina,’ said Charlie thoughtfully. He stared at the tall black girl, a puzzled look on his face. ‘Is her last name Johnson? Is she the little second year who joined the Gryffindor team in my final year?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry and Ginny simultaneously.

‘Blimey, she’s grown up,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d never have recognised her. She was a goofy little thing, but bloody good in the air.’

‘And she’s definitely not Romilda, Harry, so you win the sweep again,’ said Ginny.

‘Sweep?’ asked Charlie.

‘If you turned up more often, you’d know about the “George’s Girlfriend Sweepstake”,’ Ginny told her brother. ‘He usually brings a girl to dinner and we always put money on how many times she’ll be back. The record so far is nine visits. Verity, who used to work for him and Fleur’s cousin Claudine both lasted that long. Two weeks ago, on his birthday, he brought Romilda Vane. Harry chose “once only”. It was a safe bet really, nobody thought _she_ would be coming back.’

‘Better warn Justin when you get back to Romania,’ Harry said, ‘Ron and I reckon that apart from Dennis Creevey, he’s the only male DA member Romilda hasn’t made a pass at.’

‘Don’t be silly, Harry,’ Ginny told him, ‘There’s Lee, Seamus, Terry and Michael too. Maybe we should start a book on Romilda, Harry. Which boy is next?’

Charlie listened in astonishment to his sister, snorting in disbelief.

‘The winner gets first pick.’ Ginny ignored her brother, ‘So Harry?’

‘Angelina will be another one off,’ Harry said, handing back one of the Galleons.

‘Are you in Charlie?’ Ginny asked. ‘Best be quick, Ron’s on his way to place his bet.’

‘This is cruel,’ Charlie said.

‘We’d bet on you too, if we thought there was a chance you’d ever bring a girl home, or a boy.’ Ginny told him.

‘You’re a brave man, Harry, sticking with this spitfire,’ Charlie grinned, ’I’ll take six visits.’ He handed Ginny a galleon.

‘I’ll take a hundred, or more,’ Ginny said as Ron arrived. Harry looked at her in astonishment.

‘That’s almost four years!’ Harry said. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Yeah, that’s ridiculous, Ginny,’ said Ron as he joined them.

Ginny shook her head. ‘You’ll see,’ she told them confidently. ‘What about you, Ron?’

‘It’s another one off,’ said Ron.

‘Too late,’ Harry told him. ‘They’re almost always one-offs until mid-May.’

‘Sod,’ Ron replied. ‘Okay, I’ll take two visits.’

‘Right, that only leaves Bill and Perce,’ said Ginny.

‘Perce is in?’ Charlie asked.

‘He wasn’t at first, which is unusual for Perce, he’s usually keen. I think he was trying to impress Audrey. But she told him he was being boring, so he changed his mind.’ Ginny looked past Charlie, and waved. ‘Hi, Angelina. Charlie wants to know if you’re the goofy little second year who joined his Quidditch team.’

* * *

Molly had excelled herself. In the years since The Battle, Harry had become used to the idea that Easter was almost another Christmas. When, at two o’clock, Molly called everyone into the kitchen, the table was groaning under the weight of an almost ostrich-sized turkey with all the trimmings.

Before everyone took their seats, they ritually exchanged chocolate eggs. Angelina apologised to Molly for not bringing eggs for everyone.

‘In my family, only the little children get eggs,’ Angelina told her, fishing a large Honeydukes' egg from her bag and presenting it to Victoire, who, with eggs from her grandparents, uncles, and aunt, was almost lost in the mountain of chocolate.

‘So, where’s mine?’ George asked. ‘You keep telling me I’m childish.’

‘I do, don’t I?’ said Angelina. ‘I know what you’re like George, yours is here.’

She pulled a small egg from her bag which, despite his mother’s protestations, George insisted on eating as his first course.

‘It’s only a mouthful,’ he said defiantly, as Molly placed a tray of roast potatoes onto the table in front of him. His mother reached for her wand, but before she could stop him, George pushed the whole egg into his mouth, bit down hard, and began to chew.

‘Something wrong, George?’ Ginny asked as she passed a bowl of glazed carrots down the table to Fleur.

Harry, who had been pouring gravy onto his fully laden plate, looked across the table and realised that George was sweating. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched as George’s face reddened. For a moment Harry thought that George, his cheeks bulging, was going to spit the masticated mess of chocolate out onto his plate. A lava-hot glare, and one word ‘Manners!’ from his mother, was enough to stop him.

‘Don’t you like the egg?’ Angelina asked solicitously. ‘Last weekend, after we’d been to that fish and chip restaurant, you told me that you preferred spicy food. So I bought you a chocolate and jalapeno Easter egg.’

A nasal, ‘Hnnnng,’ was all George could manage as his family erupted with laughter.

Eyes bulging, George swallowed, gasped, and gulped down the glass of white wine in front of him. ‘More,’ he demanded. Molly shook her head firmly, and instead poured him a large glass of water, which he also downed.

‘That wasn’t fair. I didn’t do anything to deserve that,’ George protested as he used his napkin to wipe the sweat from beneath his eyes.

‘Your mum told you not to eat it,’ Angelina told him. ‘Perhaps you should listen to her.’

‘You should,’ said his mother, nodding. There was laughter, and murmurs of agreement, from around the table.

‘You’re my family! Why is no one on my side?’ asked George petulantly.

‘Romilda,’ Ginny managed to say the name while noisily clearing her throat, and the laughter continued.

‘You want stuffing, George?’ asked Percy. He had a spoonful of sage and onion in his hand, but there was a mild threat in his voice. Audrey gave a surprisingly guttural chortle.

‘I hate you all,’ said George cheerfully. Shaking his head, he began to pile food his plate.

As was often the case at The Burrow, it was one of those meals where there wasn’t enough room on the table for all of the food. Even so the dishes were quickly emptied, and the main course seemed to be finished in no time. Harry was certain that this was because the conversation around the laden table had been full of bad jokes and good cheer. It was definitely much more upbeat and enjoyable than the disastrous meal two weeks earlier, from which he, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione had fled. George’s Birthday dinner was always a little awkward but George’s guest, Romilda, had managed to insult almost everyone at the table. As a consequence that meal had seemed to drag on forever.

When Ron finally finished eating, Molly stood and began to clear the table. George, too, stood and began to help his mother. As last to arrive, it was his job to help. Despite Molly’s protests, Angelina also helped. It took them only moments to clear the dirty dishes away. The moment the main course had been removed, Fleur pulled out her wand.

‘Fleur has made dessert,’ said Molly. She sounded slightly worried.

‘This is Maman’s recipe, Clafoutis aux Cerises,’ Fleur announced. She levitated several large pie dishes onto the table. ‘I think you would call this cherry pie, but...’

‘It isn’t like any cherry pie you’ll have eaten. If you need to know, it’s whole cherries baked in a sort of custard,’ said Bill, coming to the aid of his wife. ‘But really, it’s Clafoutis aux Cerises, and it’s delicious. One word of warning: when I say whole cherries, I mean it. They haven’t been stoned.’

Harry took his first bite, and agreed with Bill’s assessment; it was delicious. Soon Fleur, who was the only one at the table able to decorously remove the cherry stones from her mouth, was basking in praise. From Harry’s perspective dessert, too, seemed to be over in an instant.

After the dishes were washed, everyone trooped outside. Arthur, Molly, Bill, Fleur and Charlie were happy to sit in the garden and watch over Victoire. Percy managed to corner Hermione, as he had some important ideas for improvements to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

Harry managed to avoid being dragged into Percy’s conversation, and he and Ginny strolled up to the orchard. They settled themselves under a tree, leaned against the trunk, and looked out over the countryside.

‘It’s another nice day,’ said Ginny.

‘It’s always a nice day when I’m with you,’ said Harry promptly. Ginny elbowed him in the ribs.

‘I’ve read your copy of “Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches” you know,’ she told him. ‘I found it in your bedroom last weekend.’

‘I haven’t,’ Harry told her. ‘Got any tips for me?’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.

‘I haven’t,’ he protested. ‘Ron gave it to me on my seventeenth, but your present distracted me, and then things got a bit hectic and I left it behind at The Burrow. Your Dad gave me the box soon after I got back, not long after the funerals. But I put it in the attic, and forgot about it. I only found it last weekend.’

‘Things got a bit hectic,’ said Ginny, grinning at him. ‘You’re a master at understatement, Harry.’

‘So on those occasions I tell you that you’re gorgeous, just think if what I’m really trying to say,’ he told her.

Ginny elbowed him again. ‘You must have read the damn book!’

‘No. Perhaps I’m simply happy,’ he suggested. ‘Like those two.’ He gestured towards George and Angelina, who were strolling up the hill towards them, bickering and joking. ‘It’s nice to see George smile,’ Harry observed. ‘But I don’t think Angelina will be back after that trick with the Easter egg.’

‘It is nice,’ Ginny agreed. ‘And I’m certain that she will be back _because_ of that trick with the Easter egg.’

Harry shrugged, and they watched George and Angelina approach.

‘Not interrupting anything, are we?’ George asked as he dropped down on to the grass, facing Harry and Ginny.

‘What do you want?’ Ginny asked.

‘I saw Dennis at the start of the Easter holidays,’ said George, staring accusingly at Harry. ‘He wants to know what’s going on. You could let him know what’s happening, Harry.’

‘I’ve got nothing to tell him,’ said Harry with a regretful shrug. ‘When there is, he’ll be the first to know.’

‘Know about what?’ Angelina asked as she lowered herself to sit alongside George.

‘You know that Harry found out who killed Colin Creevey, don’t you?’ Ginny asked.

‘Of course,’ said Angelina. ‘Alicia and Lee told me last year. It was that vicious Slytherin Beater, Gregory Goyle. They said we all had to keep a look out for a company called Mark D’arque, and for alcoholic pumpkin juice. They also said Goyle was likely to be with Marcus Flint, Miles Bletchley, and a couple of Slytherin girls from Harry’s year.’

‘Millicent Bullstrode and Daphne Greengrass, yes,’ Harry told her. He turned to address George directly. ‘Finding Goyle is my top priority, George. We’ve been running down possible sightings from Shetland to Penzance and—it seems like—everywhere in between. They’ve all been false alarms. There is no sign of Goyle, or any of the others, anywhere; there hasn’t been for a year. If you’ve got any bright ideas about how to find them I’d like to hear them, because at the moment we’ve got nothing. We’ve been watching their accounts, but there has been no activity in any of them. Ron is convinced that they haven’t touched their account because Draco Malfoy has told them that’s how we managed to track Rabastan Lestrange.’

‘Harry thinks that Malfoy won’t have told them, because he’s changed,’ said Ginny. ‘I agree with Ron. I haven’t seen anything to persuade me that he isn’t the same nasty, cowardly little bully he’s always been.’

‘Narcissa Malfoy is convinced that Goyle wants to kill Draco, and Draco thinks so, too. I’m sure the Malfoys have told us everything they know because they want Goyle captured.’ Harry looked at his girlfriend apologetically, unwilling to argue. ‘Susan, Lavender and Terry have been working on the assumption that it’s Theodore Nott, not Malfoy, who is feeding information to the fugitives, ‘Personally, I think that it’s more likely that Nott is telling Pansy, and Pansy is talking to Daphne.’

‘Theodore Nott, eh?’ said George. ‘I’ve heard a lot about the Notts, and their business practices. The rumours say that they were the only people old man Parkinson wasn’t prepared to cross. They say that if you annoy them, something nasty will happen to you. But no one can ever prove that the Notts had anything to do with it.’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry grimly. ‘You should see the files Susan and Terry have compiled on Theodore Nott.’ He placed his hands more than a yard apart to demonstrate. ‘But Theodore Nott definitely hasn’t been transferring money to them, so we have no idea what they are living on, or where they are buying stuff. The wanted posters are everywhere, but every sighting we’ve had has been a case of mistaken identity.’

‘Perhaps they are hiding in the Muggle world,’ Ron suggested, as he and a rather flustered looking Hermione joined them under the trees.

‘Don’t be silly, Ron,’ Hermione said. ‘They’re all Muggle-hating Purebloods. They’d never live among Muggles, they’re simply using Polyjuice potion.’

‘That’s why the legislation has been amended to include Boomslang skin and Bicorn horn in the list of Class B Tradeable Materials, isn’t it?’ asked Angelina, suddenly enlightened. ‘You’re trying to reduce the availability of Polyjuice potion ingredients.’

Harry nodded.

‘That explains a lot,’ said Angelina. ‘It’s created a lot of extra work for us poor folk in “Magical Creatures”, hasn’t it, Hermione?’

Hermione nodded. ‘But not as much as the reorganisation Percy has just suggested,’ she said. ‘Honestly, Ginny, I know that Percy often has good ideas, but sometimes I think he simply likes to create more paperwork for everyone.’

‘I thought you enjoyed paperwork, Hermione,’ said Ginny. Hermione rolled her eyes.

‘We work for the Ministry, Hermione,’ Angelina added. ‘Paperwork comes with the job; we might as well enjoy it.’ She looked at the assembled group. ‘So, there’s no sign of anyone on your “Most Wanted” list?’

‘No,’ Ron confirmed. ‘If only there was a way to break a Fidelius Charm.’

Angelina looked puzzled.

‘We have information that Goyle’s parent’s house is hidden under a Fidelius Charm and we’re working on the theory that they are hiding there, and only coming out for supplies,’ Harry explained. ‘We even think we know where. According to Malfoy, the Goyles lived in a place called Garr Hall. It’s supposedly on an island off the west coast of Ireland, one of the Gorumna Islands. But it seems that the entire island is hidden under the Charm.’

‘Enough Auror talk,’ said Ginny. ‘Where did you buy that chocolate egg, Angelina? There are a couple of Harpies I’d like to buy for.’

The afternoon flew over, and before Harry knew it, it was dusk and they were being fed what Molly considered to be “a light tea” of cold meat, pickles, freshly baked bread, and salad. Bill, Fleur and a very sleepy Victoire departed soon after tea, and Percy and Audrey followed closely behind. Angelina, however, resisted George’s attempts to drag her away and instead insisted that they stay and join in a game of exploding snap.

Harry, along with Ron, Ginny and Hermione were staying overnight, and travelling to Hermione’s parents’ house the following morning. Harry and Ron shared George and Fred’s old room, Ginny and Hermione shared Bill and Charlie’s old room, and Charlie was relegated to Ron’s old room in the attic.

Ginny’s suggestion, at Christmas, that she and Harry might share had been dismissed by Molly and accompanied by a very long lecture, the recollection of which still made Harry squirm. It was obvious that Molly knew that Ginny and Harry often spent the night together, but that she would not allow such things under her own roof. Ginny had, for once, given in to her mother’s wishes.

After breakfast at The Burrow, Ron and Hermione set off to drive a hundred miles back to Hermione’s parent’s home in Itchen Worthy. Harry and Ginny waited for twenty minutes before following, because Ginny wanted to know how fast the bike would go on the ground. They managed to catch Hermione just after Winchester; Harry slowed, and stayed behind Hermione for the final few miles of the journey.

Hermione’s Aunt Gerry and Uncle Alan were good, if inquisitive, company, and the four youngsters spent a pleasant and relaxing Easter Monday with them, and with Hermione’s parents. When Alan and Gerry Barker discovered that Hermione’s flat was in Chelsea, and that it overlooked the Thames, several hints were dropped. Hermione gave in to the inevitable, and invited them to spend a weekend in the city. The evening ended with a meal was in the local pub, “The Cricketers” and it was late in the evening when Harry and Ginny on the bike, and Ron and Hermione in the Mini, finally set off to return to London.


	5. Belgravia Mews

**5\. Belgravia Mews**

Harry was dreaming about flying on the bike. Ginny was on the pillion seat, she was snuggling into his back and her arm was draped loosely around his chest. They were warm, cosy, and together, and someone was calling his name.

‘Auror Potter!’ The woman’s voice was low, but urgent.

Harry grumbled. As he reluctantly dragged himself away from his dream and into the world of the awake, he discover that much of it was true. He was, indeed warm and cosy, Ginny’s arm was lying across his ribs, and she was snuggled into his back. However, he wasn’t flying; he was lying on his side, facing the edge of his bed. The woman’s voice was coming from his bedside table. As he opened his eyes and reached over towards the table, he disturbed Ginny.

‘Wha’ time izt?’ Ginny mumbled.

‘Go back to sleep,’ he whispered, gently disentangling himself from her arm.

‘Auror Potter, Auror Potter.’ The voice was getting louder.

Harry swung his legs out of bed and sat up; looking down into the small mirror on his bedside table, he placed a finger on it.

‘Potter here,’ he said curtly. Behind him, Ginny yawned.

‘Are you alone, Mr Potter?’ the woman asked curiously.

‘What is it?’ Harry asked.

‘Are you alone, Mr Potter?’ the voice repeated.

‘That is none of your business,’ Harry replied in a whisper. ‘Who are you, what time is it, and what do you want?’

‘My name is Linda Janus and I work for the Muggle Monitoring Service,’ said the woman resentfully. ‘It is now five thirty-seven a.m. and I am simply following _your_ orders, Mr Potter. The Muggle police have been called to a suspicious death at a Ministry monitored location, number twenty-seven Belgravia Mews. A Muggle is dead in suspicious circumstances. Cause of death is currently unknown, but there is a witness report claiming that there was a flash of green light at the scene.’

‘I’m on my way.’ Harry was instantly awake. ‘Thanks, Linda. Sorry I was grumpy, but I had a late night, and you woke me up. Goodbye.’

‘Wassup?’ Ginny asked the moment Harry broke the connection. Blinking blearily, she struggled to sit up in bed.

‘Sorry, Ginny. Auror Office business,’ he said, leaning across the bed and kissing her cheek. ‘I need to go. I have a suspicious death to investigate. You go back to sleep. You don’t need to be back in Holyhead for another four hours, and you need to be rested for training. You’ve got a big match coming up.’ He grabbed his clothes as quickly and quietly as he could, disturbed Ginny with another farewell kiss, and tiptoed along to his bathroom to wash and dress.

* * *

Harry rode his motorbike along Birdcage Walk, heading towards Belgravia. To his right, St James’s Park was deserted; to his left, in Wellington Barracks, half-a dozen guardsmen in red tunics and bearskin hats were mustering. A little over half a mile behind him, Big Ben rang six times; this ensured that he knew the exact time. Minutes later, he was turning right off Buckingham Palace Road.

The crime scene was easy to find. An ambulance and several police cars, all with blue lights flashing, were clustered around the entrance to a Mews, preventing vehicular access. The narrow access had been cordoned off with blue and white police tape, and a rather bored-looking policeman stood guard.

Parking behind one of the police cars, Harry took off his bike helmet and fastened it under the saddle. Crouching down behind the bike, out of sight of the now much more alert policeman, he pulled his wallet from his pocket. Over the roof of the police cars, he could see the man’s custodian helmet moving. Certain that the policeman was approaching, Harry moved quickly. Unfolding the wallet, he pulled out his long black trench coat, removed it from the hanger, and laid it across the bike saddle. As a precaution, he lifted his Sneakoscope from the wallet, too. It was silent and unmoving, but he placed it in his coat pocket, just in case. Putting the dragonskin bike jacket onto the hanger, he placed it inside his wallet, refolded the wallet down to its usual size, slid his identity card from it, and pulled on his coat.

This would be the first time he’d tested the card. Hoping that it would work, he walked confidently forwards. The middle-aged constable, who had been strolling towards him with the easy gait of a man who’d spent years on the beat, stopped and waited for Harry to approach. The policeman had halted next to the white painted arch which formed the entrance to the Mews. A blue sign on the wall next to him proclaimed “Private Mews – Residents Only”, this was an expensive and exclusive part of London. 

‘Harry Potter, Auror Office.’ He introduced himself to the policeman, and showed him the identity card. ‘I need to speak to the Senior Investigating Officer. Who would that be?’

The constable took the card from Harry’s hand and examined it carefully. _Harry J Potter, Auror Office, Special Intelligence Division, Home Office._ The official looking card also contained Harry’s photograph and signature, and carried the Home Office Crest. The policeman raised an eyebrow.

‘DCI Abberline,’ the policeman pointed to an overweight, florid faced man in his fifties who was standing outside an open door about halfway down the narrow, cobbled mews. ‘You’d best go through, Mr Potter.’

Detective Chief Inspector Abberline was talking to two other plainclothes officers, a thin-faced man in his early thirties and a beefy woman whose long white-blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail. The woman was the first to spot him, and Harry saw her say something to the large man.

‘Chief Inspector Abberline,’ Harry called as the large man turned to see who was approaching. He held out his hand. ‘Harry Potter, Auror Office,’ he said, showing Abberline his identification. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s possible that my office may have an interest in this case.’

Abberline looked at the identity card, then at Harry, and scowled. He took Harry’s proffered hand and gave it a bone cracking squeeze, Harry did the same, and when they finally finished, the Detective Inspector looked at Harry with some respect.

‘Spooks recruiting toddlers these days, are they?’ Abberline growled. ‘You’re barely out of nappies, lad. And they’ve sent you to a suspicious death? Have you come to close us down because of national security? Or are you interested in the body?

‘I don’t know yet, sir.’ Harry chose his words carefully. ‘I’m simply here to check the crime scene, and make sure that we don’t need to get involved. Have you identified the victim?

‘Sagar, who’s the stiff?’ Abberline asked.

‘Daniel Garner McCoy, guv.’ The woman provided the answer instantly. ‘SOCO have just found his passport in the bedroom. It’s definitely him, and he’s a US citizen.’

Abberline groaned and swore, ‘I hope you buggers _are_ involved, then _you_ can deal with the US Embassy. Rather you than me, Potter!’ The detective shook his head despairingly. ‘Is he the man you’re interested in?’

The detective was watching Harry carefully, trying to decide how helpful to be.

‘I’ve no idea who he is,’ replied Harry honestly. ‘He was renting the place, I assume.’

Abberline looked at the thin-faced man and nodded, giving him permission to speak.

‘We think so,’ the thin-faced male detective replied. ‘I’m DI Godley, local CID. We haven’t been able to trace the owner yet. Do _you_ know who it belongs to?’

‘The property is owned by Sir Julian Finch-Fletchley,’ said Harry. ‘But it’s the London residence of his son, Justin, who is out of the country at the moment.’

‘And you know where, I suppose,’ Abberline growled, lighting up a cigarette. ‘You’re not interested in the victim, are you? It’s the owner you’re watching.’

‘Justin Finch-Fletchley is in Romania,’ Harry replied. ‘Will you need to speak to him?’

‘It’s a possible burglary/murder, son. If the dead Yank was renting the place furnished, of course we’ll want to speak to this Fletch-Finchley bloke. It don’t matter how rich or important he is,’ sneered Abberline. ‘Now, can we get to work?’

‘Of course,’ Harry said, ‘I’d like to see the body, and the flat; and I want to speak to whoever reported the incident.’

‘The last is easy! Beat Plod,’ said Inspector Godley. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate three uniformed officers standing a few yards away. ‘Four years in the job and she’s lost it already, reckons a magician did it,’ he continued.

Harry tried to keep a poker face at Godley’s words, but he was convinced that Chief Inspector Abberline had registered his sudden interest.

‘I’ll speak to the constable first,’ Harry said. ‘And then I’ll take a look at the scene, if that’s all right with you, Chief Inspector.’

‘Let’s just assume that I said it _wasn’t_ all right,’ said Abberline his flabby face contorting with cautious cunning. ‘Let’s just suppose that I tell you to bugger off and leave me to do my job, because you’ve got no right to be here. What happens then?’

‘I contact my boss, who contacts his boss, who contacts the Home Secretary, who contacts the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis. That’s a lot of people who’re a lot more important than us being roused from their beds, and none of them will be happy about it. Then, once the Commissioner knows, it _is_ alright. And I do my job whether you like it or not,’ Harry replied. ‘Sorry, sir, but that’s how it is.’

Abberline coughed and spat grey phlegm onto the cobbles.

‘Bloody spooks,’ he said to his colleagues. ‘If they’re involved we’ll be flamin’ lucky to find out what’s going on here. Talk to SOCO before you go inside, Potter.’

He strode into the house, his two colleagues at his heels.

Harry turned and walked over to speak to the uniformed officers. Two men, one wearing sergeant’s stripes were talking to a young woman. She was, Harry thought, older than he was, but only by two or three years. She looked pale but determined.

‘Hello, I’m Harry Potter. Detective Inspector Godley told me that you reported this incident,’ said Harry. ‘He didn’t tell me your name.’

The woman looked at him curiously. ‘Beadle,’ she said, ‘Constable Roberta Beadle.’

Harry examined her closely, she was only an inch or so shorter than he was, and broad of shoulder. Her face was thin, and her hair, what little of it protruded from beneath her bowler hat, was dark brown and cropped short. PC Beadle’s brown eyes were sharp and inquisitive, and she was definitely sizing him up with a professional eye.

‘I realise that you’ve already spoken to DI Godley, constable,’ Harry said. ‘But I’d be grateful if you could tell me what happened.’

‘You’ve told me your name, but nothing else,’ Constable Beadle told him. ‘Who do you work for? Why are you here?’

He silently showed her his identification.

‘Auror Office,’ she said curiously. ‘Never heard of it!’

‘Not surprising, we only get involved in the strange stuff,’ Harry told her.

Constable Beadle gave a short, sarcastic, laugh. ‘Strange,’ she said. She stared thoughtfully into his face. ‘Well, you’ve found strange all right. You asked for it.’

With the straightforward professionalism of someone trained to make witness statements, PC Beadle told Harry what she had seen.

She had been walking along the main road, Belgravia Road, at about half past four in the morning when she had noticed an open front door. Assuming a burglary, possibly still in progress, she had radioed for assistance and then walked down the cobbled lane as quietly as she could. She was, she admitted, “hoping for a collar”, but when she was halfway down the mews towards the door when she heard a man shout “get outta my house”. Constable Beadle stopped and looked straight into Harry’s face.

‘I had my spray in one hand, my baton in the other, so I ran forwards. Then … this is the weird bit,’ she said. She looked fiercely into his eyes, obviously expecting him to dismiss her next words, and continued. ‘I told Inspector Godley this, but he just laughed at me. I heard another voice, it shouted something. I’m not sure what, but it sounded a lot like “Abracadabra.” There was a flash of green light from inside. I saw it through the open door. As I ran towards the door, a young man ran out. He was about your height, perhaps a little taller, thin-faced and blond. He had a sack over one shoulder, it looked heavy.’

‘I thought that he had a gun.’ Constable Beadle said defensively, ‘He certainly pointed something at me. I wasn’t close enough to spray him, so stopped and put my hands up. But when I got a good look, I realised that he was only carrying a stick. I started to move towards him, and that’s when we both heard the sirens approaching. He took off. He ran that way.’ She pointed to the opposite end of the Mews. The cobbled lane continued, and led out onto a different street which, Harry noticed, was also secured by a police officer. ‘I got to the arch a second or two after him, but just as I got there I heard a gunshot. I thought he must have a gun after all, that he was shooting at me, but I was running to fast to stop. I barrelled out of the mews—but he’d gone. There was no sign of him anywhere.’

‘He was carrying a stick?’ Harry asked neutrally.

It looked like a stick, a bit of wood, about this long.’ She held her hands about eight inches apart.

‘That guy inside is dead, I think I saw his killer, and he got away. It was like he just vanished into thin air.’ The constable shook her head sadly. ‘This won’t look good on my record. I’ve been trying for a transfer into CID. I’ve no chance now, especially not with this crazy story. But,’ she looked earnestly at Harry. ‘Crazy or not, I know what I saw.’

‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘I need to contact my colleagues, if you’ll excuse me.’

He walked some distance away from the young police officer and pulled his battered gold watch and his mirror from his pocket. It was still only six-twenty. _Sorry, Ron_ , he thought. He spoke into the mirror.

‘Ron,’ he said clearly. There was no reply.

‘Ron, time to go to work, mate.’ This time he heard a muffled grunt.

‘Ron, wakey, wakey,’ he tried again, raising his voice. Finally, he got a reply, but it wasn’t Ron.

‘What’s wrong, Harry?’ Hermione asked. She peered out from his mirror, sleep-befuddled and tousle-haired.

‘I’m in Belgravia. There’s been a burglary at Justin’s place. A Muggle has been killed and it sounds like the Avada Kedavra. Do me a favour and rouse sleeping beauty, please. It would help if you could drive him over. He can’t Apparate, because the place is crawling with police and there’s CCTV everywhere. Ask him to contact the office, to let them know where we are. I think it would be a good idea for him to call Fenella, too. Now that we finally have our own photographer, we should use her.’

‘Okay, Harry. We’ll be right there,’ Hermione said. ‘WAKE UP RON.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Harry, breaking the connection. He placed the mirror back in his pocket.

Harry sensed movement behind him. He whirled round reaching into his coat for his wand. He was face to face with Roberta Beadle. She stepped back defensively, and he wondered what she had overheard.

‘I’m expecting some colleagues,’ he told her sharply. ‘Mr Ron Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger will be arriving soon. Make sure that the officer at the entrance knows to let them past, will you?’

Harry stepped past her and walked towards the open door. He was met by Chief Inspector Abberline, who was lighting up another cigarette as he stepped out of the house.

‘Spoken to the plod?’ Abberline asked.

‘Yes, she tells an interesting story.’

‘Interesting,’ Abberline grunted. ‘That’s one way to put it. She radioed in with a call of “shot fired” and dead body. The alert call went straight to MIT, to me, and also to SO19, We’ve still got a couple of ARV’s patrolling the area, just in case. It’s a bloody good job that our door to door confirms that several of the neighbours heard a loud bang; otherwise the plod would be in serious bovver. Even so, the dead Yank in there ain’t been shot. The Doc doesn’t know how he died.’

‘Not a mark on him,’ Harry suggested. ‘It looks like he might have died of a heart attack?’ Abberline looked surprised, but nodded. ‘It could still be manslaughter?’ Harry asked. ‘If Mr McCoy disturbed a burglar and died of a heart attack?’

Abberline shrugged, ‘We’d never make manslaughter stick, even if we catch the bugger.’

‘We’ll be making a separate investigation, Chief Inspector,’ Harry told him. ‘This case is definitely of interest to the Auror Office. It’s up to you, of course, but I think you can probably tell the Armed Response Vehicles to stand down. I’m fairly certain that your suspect is long gone. Has the body been moved yet?’

Abberline shook his head. ‘Nah, we’re waiting for SOCO to finish.’

‘I’ll need to see it myself first.’

‘Seen a dead ‘un before, son?’ Abberline asked snidely. ‘Or will you need a sick bag?’

Harry looked him steadily in the eye. ‘I’ve lost count,’ he said sadly. ‘If you’ve got this down as a heart attack, Inspector, I can guarantee that I’ve seen worse.’

Abberline’s eyes showed his surprise, but he shrugged dismissively. ‘Follow me, sonny, and don’t touch anything.’

When the portly detective turned and waddled through the door and into the hall, Harry was at his heels. The hall was small, and crowded. A door at the far end led into a kitchen, a door on the right led into a small living room. A man lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes open and staring. His short cropped dark hair was just beginning to recede, and an expression of surprise was frozen on his dead face. The man was wearing a pair of boxer shorts, nothing else. He was slim, fit-looking and his thirties. 

A doctor wearing a forensic suit stood up from his examination and scratched his head.

‘Heart attack for cause of death, Doc?’ Abberline asked.

The doctor looked puzzled, and shrugged. ‘Possibly, we’ll need to do a post mortem to find out. It looks like he simply … stopped being alive.’

Abberline looked at Harry curiously. ‘Care to add anything to the Doc’s report?’ he asked. Harry bent down over the corpse and examined it, being careful not to touch anything.

‘No, sorry,’ Harry said. ‘What’s through there?’ He pointed into the living room.

‘Oh, you’ll like this,’ Abberline grumbled. He led Harry into the room. There was only one window, which looked out into the mews. A hole had been blasted in the rear wall, but there was no debris, merely a pile of ash on the floor. Harry recognised the signs. Someone had used the Reductor curse. They had forced their way into a secret room to the rear of the living room. Harry’s heart sank. He reached inside his coat for his wand and strode across to the hole. Inspector Godley and Sergeant Sagar were examining a row of jars on shelves along one wall. Even from across the room, Harry could immediately identify the contents.

‘Out, now!’ Harry ordered.

Abberline growled. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered.

Harry glared at Abberline, ‘Get them out, now. That stuff’s dangerous, possibly explosive.’

Abberline looked ready to argue.

‘That’s an order,’ Harry said, ‘I don’t want to make that call to my boss. Let me go in alone. You can watch me if you want. But get them out, now.’

‘You two, out,’ ordered Abberline reluctantly. ‘I’ll be watching, you son, so don’t try anything.’

Harry let Godley and Sagar climb out through the hole before carefully clambering into the room and beginning his examination. Justin’s school books, and several other spell books, were neatly stacked on shelves along the left hand wall. There were several gaps on the shelves where a number of books had been removed.

The back wall contained a desk, several worn quills and a large roll of parchment. Next to the desk were a set of scales, a cauldron and an expensive school trunk. The lid of trunk had a brass plate etched with the words J P W Finch-Fletchley – Hufflepuff.

The right hand wall contained shelves of potion ingredients. Various jars had been taken from there, too.

Harry turned his attention to the wall blasted open by the Reductor curse. At one end there was a magically hidden door leading back into the living room. Although well hidden on the outside, the door was plainly visible, to Harry at least, from inside the store room.

‘Have you moved anything?’ Harry called.

‘We’re not stupid, son,’ Inspector Godley replied. ‘Of course we haven’t.’

Harry examined the secret room a second time, moving very carefully and taking his time. Justin was very neat and tidy. Harry pulled parchment and quill from his pocket and quickly listed the books and ingredients he thought were missing. With his back to the hole so that Abberline could not see what he was doing, he silently cast a Muggle repelling charm over the room.

Harry turned back to Abberline.

‘My mistake, no explosives, robbery is your motive. There are some very expensive bottles of wine, and some rare first editions missing. I’d like to double check before I give you a list. Fortunately, our resident bookworm is on her way.’

Harry stood in the hole and looked out at the three detectives.

‘I realise that your scene of crime officers are photographing everything, but I’ve called in someone from my office, too. I’m going to take jurisdiction over this room. I don’t even want your SOCO people in here.’

Abberline glared at Harry, and swore long and loud. The detective knew an impressive number of swear words and used many of them in very inventive ways, some of which Harry hadn’t heard before. Harry simply listened in silence. He could understand why the Inspector was swearing. He even had some sympathy for the man; he wouldn’t like it if someone came in and took over his own investigation. Harry waited patiently and eventually Abberline lapsed into silence.

‘Sorry, Chief Inspector.’

‘So, we’re wasting our time here are we?’ Abberline snapped, ‘You won’t tell me what’s missing! You won’t tell me what killed McCoy either! But you bloody well know, don’t you? Effing spooks!’

‘Sorry, national security,’ Harry said. ‘There is nothing more I can tell you. I’m just going to call my office.’

Harry again turned his back on the detectives, and silently cast the Muffliato spell. He then used his Mirrorphone to speak to Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office. While briefing his boss, Harry mulled over how he’d approached this incident.

Hermione had always felt guilty about her use of a memory charm on her parents. With his help, she had persuaded the Ministry to avoid using memory alteration on Muggles wherever possible. They had discussed alternatives with Ron and Ginny. Someone, Harry thought it was Hermione, she claimed it had been him, had the idea of making the Auror Office appear to be part of the Muggle Home Office. This was the first time that the idea had been tried. It was working, after a fashion.

The Muggle Police were allowing him to investigate, assuming that the Aurors were dealing with a security issue. If, as Harry suspected, the police investigation subsequently came to nothing, the cops would blame the Auror Office. Harry would not be popular with the Muggle police, but he could live with that.

The benefit was that, hopefully, the Auror Office would not need to use memory charms on anyone; except possibly that stubborn police woman. She insisted on telling her story accurately, even though she knew it was making her colleagues think that she was unstable.

It was going well, he thought, all things considered. Chief Inspector Abberline was getting more and more aggressive, but he’d accepted Harry as an Intelligence Officer (or spook, as he preferred). However, Abberline’s abusive response to Harry’s latest request showed that the Inspector had been pushed as far as he would go. Harry reluctantly asked Robards to make the call.

That done he replaced his mirror in his pocket and checked that his Muggle repelling spell was working. Satisfied, he dismissed his Muffliato spell, and climbed back out through the hole.

‘My colleagues should be here any minute now,’ he told Abberline as he walked outside. As he stepped into the mews, he heard a shout.

‘Morning, Harry,’ Ron shouted and waved.

Ron and Hermione were being escorted down the mews by PC Beadle. Ron, like Harry, was in his Auror uniform, Hermione was dressed in a conservative blue skirt and jacket.

‘Bloody hell! It’s a school outing!’ Abberline shouted, stepping into the mews behind Harry. ‘What’s the name of this Intelligence Service you’re working for? Do they only employ wet-behind-the-ears school leavers?’

‘We’re a specialist unit,’ Harry said curtly, ‘I’ll introduce you.’

‘Who’s dead?’ asked Ron urgently. ‘It isn’t … anyone we know, is it?’

‘No,’ Harry replied. ‘The dead man is called McCoy, he’s an American. This is Detective Chief Inspector Abberline,’ Harry continued, ‘He’s head of the Major Incident Team. Inspector, these are my colleagues, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.’

‘So, ginger, does your office employ anyone out of their teens?’ Abberline asked Ron, aggressively. Ron blinked and blushed at the insult.

‘We’re both twenty-one,’ Hermione bridled. ‘And for your information...’

‘The Inspector isn’t happy with me,’ said Harry quickly, interrupting Hermione, ‘We’re disrupting his investigation. Hermione, I know that you’re not on our staff, but there’s something I’d like you to take a look at. But, before you do, you need to know that there’s a dead body in the hall, are you all right with that?’

Hermione blinked, but nodded. ‘It isn’t the first one I’ve seen,’ she said sadly.

‘Thanks. I’d like you to go into the back room, some books and … other items … are missing. Can you cast your expert eye over the library and the other shelves, and list what you think is missing. I think that whoever was in there knew what they wanted.’

‘What about me, mate?’ Ron asked.

Just look around, see if I’ve missed anything. Don’t touch anything. I’ll join you in a minute. Did you call the office?

‘Yeah,’ Ron nodded. ‘Neville’s on holiday today, He went up to Cumbria for the Easter weekend to meet Hannah’s Dad, I’d forgotten. He’s back tomorrow.’ Ron grinned down at his friends. ‘So it’s just the three of us, like old times, eh? I spoke to Fenella, too. She said it would take a few minutes for her to get her gear together.’

When they walked into the house, Ron and Hermione were holding hands. Abberline snorted in disbelief. Harry sighed. It was not the behaviour of two professionals, but Ron was escorting his girlfriend past a corpse, so it was certainly understandable.

A disturbance at the end of the mews attracted Harry’s attention. A very tall, bespectacled young woman carrying a long black canvas bag was arguing with the uniformed policeman at the entrance to the mews. Harry ran towards her.

‘Harry,’ she shouted. ‘The Muggles won’t let me past and there’s an Anti-Appar...’

‘Fenella,’ Harry yelled back, hurrying towards her, ‘Remember where you are!’ The girl stopped, blushing.

‘S-sorry, Harry,’ she stuttered as Harry reached her.

‘She’s with me,’ Harry told the officers at the entrance to the mews. ‘Technical support, she’s new.’

‘Name?’ Constable Beadle asked. The crop-haired Constable was following him, Harry realised.

‘Fenella Gray,’ Harry told the constable.

He grabbed Fenella by the elbow and whispered, ‘Next time, remember to use your identity card.’

‘Sorry Harry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not used to dealing with Muggles.’ She stopped, and looked around in amazement. ‘There are an awful lot of Muggle please-men here, aren’t there?’

That was going to be Fenella Grey’s biggest problem, Harry realised. She was a pureblood, and passing herself off as a Muggle had never been easy for her. He thought back to the first time he’d met the girl, at Colin Creevey’s funeral. The Auror uniform helped. Like Ron and Harry, Fenella wore black trousers, a white shirt, grey tie and a black ankle-length, cloak-like coat. The photographer was, however, still rather uncomfortable in anything other than traditional witch’s robes. She was a little more at ease in her uniform, than she had been when she’d first started, four months earlier, but at a fraction over six feet tall Fenella would never be inconspicuous.

‘Do you know what you’ve come too, Fenella?’ Harry asked worriedly.

‘This is Justin Finch-Fletchley’s place,’ said Fenella quietly. ‘It’s been burgled and a Muggle’s been killed. Was it the Avada…’

‘Fenella,’ Harry hissed. ‘Be careful what you say.’

‘Sorry, Harry,’ she squeaked worriedly.

‘That’s okay, just keep your voice down,’ Harry told her. ‘The dead man is inside, are you going to be okay?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said confidently.

‘Ron and Hermione are here too if you need any help,’ Harry advised her. He nodded towards Chief Inspector Abberline. ‘That fat man smoking a cigarette will be rude to you. Don’t answer any of his questions. In fact, don’t speak to him at all if possible.’ Harry stopped in the centre of the cobbled street, directly outside the open door to the house.

‘I’d like images of the mews, then the hall, the living room, and the secret room. I’ll leave you to it.’ Harry gave Fenella’s elbow a comforting squeeze and walked back towards Inspector Abberline, who was on a mobile phone.

‘Bollocks!’ the Inspector yelled. He angrily switched off the phone and glared at Harry. Lumbering forwards, he stepped up to Harry, not stopping until they were almost toe to toe. Leaning forwards until his nose was only inches from Harry’s, he made his opinion clear. ‘That was the Assistant Commissioner!’ His bellow was an unpleasant, tobacco-filled fug. ‘I’ve been ordered to “extend you every courtesy” and I’m “not to interfere in any way” with your investigations.’

He took a final drag on his cigarette, blew smoke into Harry’s face, threw the glowing remains onto the cobbles and ground it out under his heel.

‘Bugger this for a game of soldiers,’ he continued. ‘This isn’t one for the Major Incident Team. I’ll be passing it over to local CID, unless you want to make an issue about that, too.’

‘SAGAR!’ Abberline shouted so loudly he rattled the windows. The female detective hurried from the house.’

‘Boss?’

‘We’re leaving! Let that local CID bloke … what’s ‘is name?’

‘George Godley, DI Godley.’

‘Yeah, that’s ‘im! Tell Godley that MIT are leaving and that I’m standing down the ARV’s. If the Assistant Commissioner doesn’t want me to interfere, I won’t! We’re buggering off! Let Godley know that he’s in charge! This is a burglary, so the local CID can deal with it.’

He turned to PC Beadle, who had been watching the entire exchange.

‘Chalk this one up to experience, darlin’,’ he growled. ‘When the bloody spooks arrive, justice and procedure go straight out the window.’ With that, Abberline stormed off out of the mews followed by DS Sagar. Constable Beadle was staring reproachfully at Harry.

‘A man is dead,’ she admonished, ‘do you care?’

‘Yes, I care,’ Harry told her. ‘We’ll do our very best to bring the killer to justice.’

‘Killer,’ Beadle pounced eagerly on the word. Harry groaned inwardly at his slip.

‘You know he was killed, and you know how, too, I’m sure! Do you know who?’

‘I’m going to do my best to catch the person responsible,’ Harry said carefully.

‘ _Man_ responsible,’ the police woman continued determinedly, ‘IC1 male, five feet ten or eleven inches in height, greasy, almost white-blonde hair, noticeably pale skin.’

‘IC1?’ Harry asked.

PC Beadle looked at him curiously.

‘White European,’ she explained, ‘I got a good look at him, show me a photo and I’ll identify him.’ Harry looked at her carefully. She wasn’t going to give up, but Harry knew that she would be unable to investigate by herself and he assured himself that she’d soon forget about the case.

‘That would be useful,’ Harry told her. ‘I’ll see if I can round up some photographs for you. If I need to contact you, how do I do it?’

She pointed to her epaulettes. ‘There’s my collar number, Westminster Borough. I’m based at the Belgravia Nick; it’s on Buckingham Palace Road. You’ve got my name, too. That’s all you need, Mr Potter, _sir_ ,’ she said, managing to put a huge amount of venom into her final word.

‘Harry,’ Ron shouted from the door. ‘I’ve found something.’

Harry nodded politely to PC Beadle, and trotted back down to the doorway. He could not get inside as Fenella was carefully setting up her camera. The large tripod took up a huge amount of room.

‘Found this under a chair in the living room.’ Ron said excitedly. He handed Harry a green and silver badge with the letter P on it.

‘Slytherin prefect’s badge,’ Ron said. ‘That git Malfoy…’

‘The first police officer on the scene saw a young man, about my height, running away. He had greasy blonde hair and pale skin,’ Harry interrupted.

Ron whooped with joy. ‘You know what this means, Harry?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘Someone’s trying to frame Draco Malfoy.’

Ron’s face fell. ‘Maybe it _was_ Malfoy,’ he suggested hopefully.

Harry shook his head, ‘That dead Muggle says no. Draco’s no killer, and whatever you think of him, Ron, Draco Malfoy is not stupid enough to bring a prefects badge with him on a burglary. It’s almost three years since he finished school. Even if he had brought it, he’s certainly not careless enough to leave it behind. Someone’s trying to set him up, someone who doesn’t like him, someone with not many brains.’ Harry stared up into his friend’s face. ‘So, Ronald Weasley, can you tell me where _you_ were at five o’clock this morning?’

Ron burst out laughing. ‘You sod, Harry! I owe you for that “not many brains,” crack. But you might be onto something. D’you reckon it might be Goyle? If it is, it’s our first real lead in almost a year.’

‘He’s a possibility, don’t you think?’ Harry asked. ‘But Draco has other enemies.’

‘I’ll tell you something, mate,’ Ron snorted. ‘I’m not going to be the one that makes a list of Draco Malfoy’s enemies. It’d take me months.’

There was a bright flash from inside the hall, and Fenella began moving her camera. To Harry’s surprise, the dead body on the floor did not appear to worry the usually nervous young woman at all.

‘Can you give Fenella a hand?’ Harry asked, ‘I want to see what Hermione has found.’

He squeezed past Fenella and made his way into the living room. The scenes of crime officers had left the room. From the noises above his head, he assumed that they were upstairs. Detective Inspector Godley had Hermione trapped in a corner. He was leaning towards her, his outstretched hand on the wall beside her head.

‘Got anything for me, Hermione?’ Harry asked. Hermione ducked under Godley’s arm and hurried over to Harry.

‘What a creep,’ she muttered, as she reached Harry. ‘Yes,’ she said loudly. ‘It’s an interesting room. I’ve made a list of likely missing items for you.’ Harry reached in his pocket and passed her his scribbled note.

‘This was my effort,’ he told her. ‘Am I right?’ He looked over Hermione’s shoulder. Godley was listening to every word. Hermione read quickly down Harry’s list.

‘Close, mine is slightly different, but we agree on most items. Do you think this means…’

Harry lowered his voice and whispered in her ear. ‘That the sales restrictions on Polyjuice ingredients are working, yes. Once Fenella’s photographed the secret room we’ll clear everything from it and leave. Then the police can do their job without interference.’

‘Have you got everything you need from the hall, Fenella?’ Harry asked as she and Ron walked into the living room. 

‘Yes, thanks, Harry,’ said Fenella. As Fenella began to set up her camera, Ron caught Hermione’s expression, and glared at DI Godley.

‘Inspector,’ Harry said. ‘If you want to arrange to have Mr McCoy’s body removed, that’s fine by me. Fenella, we’ll need photographs here and through there.’ He indicated the hidden room. ‘Once you’re done we’ll be able to leave.’

Detective Inspector Godley scowled, grunted and left the room to the young witches and wizards. Harry cast a Muffliato spell.

‘We’ve outstayed our welcome,’ Harry said. ‘Fenella, photograph everything as quickly as you can, please. Ron, Hermione, when Fenella’s done that can you clear the room of anything magical? Just pack everything into his school trunk and shrink it. I’m going upstairs to make sure there’s nothing up there. I doubt it. Justin’s not stupid enough to leave anything lying around in the open, not if his Dad is renting his house out to a Muggle.’

Harry watched the body being removed and then quickly searched the upper floor. As he expected, he found nothing but clothing and other personal belongings of Daniel McCoy. Ten minutes later he was back downstairs.

While Ron and Hermione pushed the reduced trunk into Ron’s wallet, which, like Harry’s, contained an undetectable extension charm, Harry helped Fenella to pack her photographic equipment away. Apparently empty handed, except for Fenella’s camera bag, the four left the house and walked up the mews.

‘We’re finished here, Inspector,’ Harry said politely. ‘Thank you for your co-operation.’

‘Co-operation!’ Godley grumbled, ‘It would be nice if we got some co-operation from you.’

‘If we find anything which will help you catch the perpetrator, we’ll let you know.’ Harry told him, ‘If you need to contact me, you can reach me on this number.’ Harry handed Godley a business card.

As they walked up to the arch, they were being closely watched by Constable Beadle. They ducked under the tape barrier and walked up to Hermione’s bright red Mini.

‘Could you drive Fenella back to the office, Hermione?’ Harry asked quietly, ‘Ron and I are going to Wiltshire. We need to ask our old friend Mr Malfoy a few questions.’

‘Malfoy Manor,’ said Hermione. She shivered, kissed Ron goodbye, and helped a worried looking Fenella into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy on UK Police jargon. I hope it’s self-explanatory but, just in case it isn’t, here is a glossary for all you non-Brits:  
> CID = Criminal Investigation Division, the detective branch.  
> SOCO = Scenes of Crime Officers, the “Crime Scene Investigators”.  
> MIT = Major Incident (or Murder Investigation) Team, called out to investigate serious crimes.  
> SO19 = The Metropolitan Police Armed Response Unit which consists solely of “Authorised Firearms Officers” (they are now called SCO19, as they are no longer a “Special Operations” unit but a “Special Command Operations” unit, however, the term SO19 is correct for the year in which this story is set).  
> Authorised Firearms Officer = One of those very unusual policemen who carries a gun.  
> ARV = Armed Response Vehicle, a police car containing Authorised Firearms Officers, and additional firearms and ammunition. These are operated by Authorised Firearms Officers from SO19.


	6. Cymru

**6\. Cymru**

Cara stared at the vast expanse of glass. Rivulets of rain ran down the exterior of the gently curved windows. Outside, several people were sheltering under the wood and glass canopy. Their robes flapped in the wind as they waited for the squall to pass.

Despite the storm-dark skies, within the spacious, elegant, and imposing foyer of the Welsh Office all was as it should be. Inside their glass, timber, and slate offices, the staff of the newest Ministry building in Wizarding Britain worked with quiet efficiency.

Turning her gaze away from the window and looking at the pale wood wall to her right, Cara glanced at the enormous clock. She’d been checking regularly since she’d returned from her lunch break at one o’clock. It was now six minutes to two.

The foyer was almost empty. There were only a half-dozen members of the public in the cavernous space and because it was Friday—benefits day—the majority of them wore shabby robes and were huddled in the most secluded corner. The claimants were sitting on the benches in front of the Benefits Desk, patiently waiting to speak to the only Benefits Officer on duty.

Alongside Cara the other receptionist, Ffion Hughes, was directing their only customer—a nervous-looking young man—to the Apparition Test Centre.

‘Third floor, room three-seventeen,’ the man repeated.

‘That’s right, Mr Jones,’ Ffion assured him. ‘The lifts are just beyond the staircase.’ She waved her hand to indicate the direction he should take. ‘Good luck, sir.’

The man whinnied nervously and turned away from the desk to move towards the glass lifts. As he entered the lift, the flames of the large fire which burned on the wall on the left side of the foyer blazed brightly. They changed colour from warm orange-red to bright green, and Cara and Ffion exchanged a hopeful glance.

‘The Trio, you reckon?’ Ffion asked her colleague in a reverential whisper. ‘Their appointment with the Sheriff is at two o’…ooh!’ Ffion stopped mid-sentence, and squeaked in excitement.

The first to arrive was Auror Potter. He looked exactly like his press photographs; tousled black hair and sharp green eyes, which gleamed out from behind fashionable rectangular wire-rimmed glasses. The glasses were identical to the ones Ffion wore, and had only become fashionable recently, when Potter had first been photographed wearing them.

He was a little taller than Cara expected, and his famous scar was barely visible. Potter’s eyes darted everywhere as he assessed the spacious modern foyer of the Welsh office. He instantly dismissed the life-size carved wooden dragon hanging from the ceiling, and instead concentrated on the occupants of the room.

Cara’s ex-boyfriend, Mark Moon, had actually met the famous Harry Potter, a year earlier. He’d met Auror Potter in Montrose, and later Mark had helped to rescue one of Potter’s friends from a burning building. Cara’s first date with the Scottish Law Officer had been filled with Mark’s tales of excitement and danger. It wasn’t until later that she realised that most of his work was boring and mundane. Worse, he had been unwilling to attempt to contact Potter, or even to discuss the Chosen One’s character. “He seemed nice enough. When he first arrived in our office he bought us all fish and chips.” That was as much as Mark had ever said about his encounter with the Trio’s famous leader.

Next to step out from the flames was Auror Weasley. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the long black Auror uniform coat he wore. Weasley towered over Potter, he was at least as tall as her ex-boyfriend, and his face shone with a rather child-like enthusiasm which also brought happy memories of Mark into Cara’s mind. He stepped alongside Potter and stared up at the dragon in amazement.

‘Blimey,’ he said loudly. ‘This is much fancier than our place. Very impressive!’

His words were enough to make everyone in the foyer fall silent, and it was into this silence that the third member of Potter’s team arrived. Auror Longbottom was the shortest and broadest of the Trio. The fair-haired and scar-faced young man took his place on Potter’s left, and the moment he did so the three Aurors strode towards the reception desk.

They were halfway across the room when Potter stopped and looked across at the collection of witches and wizards waiting at the Benefits Desk. His companions immediately halted, and they followed his gaze. Weasley opened his mouth, but Potter held up a hand to silence him.

‘Don’t say anything yet, Ron. I want Neville’s opinion first. What d’you think?’ Harry Potter asked. He nodded towards the queue.

‘He looks shifty, but looking shifty isn’t a crime, Harry,’ Auror Longbottom observed. ‘He certainly looked very relieved when we headed towards the reception desk and not towards him. Do you know him?’

‘Well spotted, Nev. What were you going to say, Ron?’ Harry asked.

Ron Weasley gave a loud, almost pantomime, sniff. ‘I don’t recognise the face either, Harry, but I’d know that pong anywhere,’ he said conversationally. ‘I bet you do too, mate. Who do we know who always looks shifty and smokes a pipe that smells like sweaty socks?’

An elderly witch shuffled hastily sideways, away from the tall, cadaverous, and stringy-haired wizard who was sitting on the bench next to her.

‘I ain’t done nuffink,’ the man protested.

‘Probably not, at least, not yet,’ said Harry. ‘But I’m pretty certain that attempting to claim benefits disguised as someone else would be fraud, Dung.’

‘Dung? What makes you fink I’m Mundungus Fletcher?’ the man protested.

‘Harry simply called you Dung,’ said Neville. His voice was mild, but his wand had instantly appeared in his hand the moment the man spoke. ‘No one even mentioned the name Mundungus Fletcher.’

‘The noxious niff of bad baccy, and “I ain’t done nuffink,” are a bit of a giveaway, Dung,’ said Ron.

The man looked at the three Aurors, and assessed his options.

‘Don’t even think about running,’ Ron ordered. ‘You’re nicked, Dung.’

‘Nicked? What for?’ the man protested.

‘For being Mundungus Fletcher,’ said Harry, grinning.

‘You can’t arrest me for that,’ the man objected.

‘That’s what Hermione says, too,’ said Ron shaking his head regretfully. ‘She tells me: “You can’t arrest someone just because you don’t like them Ron!” So, Mundungus Fletcher, you’re under arrest on suspicion of possession of class B Tradable Materials. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

‘Come off it, Ron, I know the drill. I’ve heard the caution often enough, but class B Tradable Materials! I never…’

‘I’ve seen your mugshot, Fletcher. You’re obviously using a Polyjuice Potion,’ Neville observed quietly.

The man slumped in resignation and Neville pulled out a set of handcuffs. With the slightest of hand movements, Harry stopped his colleague in his tracks. 

‘We’ll speak to you after our meeting with the Sheriff,’ Harry said. ‘But just to show how reasonable we are, we won’t send you to the Auror cells. You can wait here. Somewhere secure.’ Harry turned to look at Cara and Ffion.

Cara touched the mirror on the desk in front of her ‘Duty Bailiff to Reception, urgent,’ she said. Potter smiled gratefully at her. Ffion glared at her colleague.

* * *

_A face like a troll who’s just lost an argument with half-a-dozen giants._

Ginny’s description of the Kenmare Beater whose Bludger had broken her ankle early in the season, and kept her out of the two subsequent games, came instantly to Harry’s mind. Because of the person facing him, his attempts to dismiss the thought had only limited success. The Sheriff of Wales had a square, pugnacious face, a nose which had been broken at least twice, and at least one cauliflower ear. The state of the other ear was uncertain, as it was hidden beneath the woman’s long black hair. She was, he thought, in her forties.

‘Deethjee Phillips,’ she said, standing and holding out a hand at least as big as Harry’s. Her voice was a deep and musical contralto, it was a voice which conjured incongruous images of Welsh beauty. She was as tall as Neville, broader in the shoulder, and her grip was definitely firm.

After summoning the Bailiff, the effusive and over-helpful receptionist—Cara—had insisted on personally showing them through to the Sheriff’s Office, much to the annoyance of her colleague. While they were being ushered inside, Harry had noted the name etched on her door: Dyddgu Phillips (Sheriff/Siryf).

Grateful that the sheriff had told him how to pronounce her forename, he introduced himself and tried to remember the inflexion she’d used.

‘Harry Potter,’ he told her.

‘I know,’ she told him, grinning at his wholly unnecessary self-identification. ‘Everyone knows.’ Her smile transformed her face: if not into a thing of beauty, at least into something which wouldn’t terrify young children.

‘Ron Weasley,’ Ron told her.

‘And Neville Longbottom,’ Neville identified himself.

The handshakes over, Sheriff Philips swept a hand towards the three chairs on the opposite side of her desk, inviting them to sit.

‘You wanted to see us, Sheriff,’ Harry said. ‘And you said it was urgent.’

‘Straight down to business,’ the Sheriff said. ‘Good. When I asked for you in person, Mr Potter, I didn’t expect an immediate response, and to be honest I didn’t expect to be visited by three Aurors. Thank you for coming so promptly.’

‘Call me Harry,’ he told her. ‘You did say that it was important, Sheriff.’

‘Harry it is then,’ she said. ‘Call me Dyddgu, if you can.’

‘Deethgy,’ said Harry experimentally.

‘Close enough,’ she said, chuckling. ‘I wouldn’t have contacted you if I didn’t think that it’s important.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Ron asked.

‘Are you familiar with magical Cardiff? Do you know Carntexp Lane at all?’

Harry and his friends shook their heads. ‘My visits to Wales are restricted to regular trips to Holyhead,’ he admitted.

‘I should warn you that you’re talking to a Catapults fan,’ she said sadly.

The Sheriff’s eyes momentarily lost their focus as her mind drifted back to relive the Harpies’ recent defeat of her team. She scowled. At least Harry hoped that it was merely a scowl, and that she wasn’t metamorphosing into a troll.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Ron, shaking his head ruefully. ‘It’s the second “four C’s” game on Saturday, and I’m a Cannons fan. You beat us at home already, so we’ve no chance. What about Cardiff, and Carntexp Lane?’

‘Carnexp Lane isn’t as big as Diagon Alley, it isn’t as big as Side Way in Edinburgh, nor even O’Verth Row, in Dublin,’ Dyddgu Phillips told them. ‘But Beaker and Rodd is the oldest Apothecary in the British Isles. Their reputation is ... at least it was ... impeccable, irreproachable. Everyone used to say, if Beaker and Rodd don’t stock it, no one does.’ Dyddgu Phillips paused and looked at the three young men. ‘In the last few weeks, we’ve started to receive complaints!’ her voice soared in disbelief as she spoke the final word.

‘You asked us here because you’ve been getting complaints about the local apothecary?’ asked Ron incredulously.

The Sheriff glared at him. Ron took one look at her fierce face, closed his mouth and tried to look contrite.

‘That’s how it started,’ she said forcefully. ‘I passed the complaints on to my cousin; he works in the Consumer Standards Office. He checked it out. Beaker and Rodd are licenced to sell class B Tradable Materials, and they’re filling in the new forms correctly, but what they’re selling is fake. My cousin bought some powdered Bicorn horn from them and checked it. It was only unicorn horn. He was going to prosecute, but I asked him to hold off until I checked.’

‘Why?’ Neville asked.

‘Because a couple of days ago two of the Bailiffs who regularly patrol Carnexp Lane mentioned that they hadn’t seen young Gareth Rodd for a while, and that old Gareth wasn’t himself. When I heard about the fake ingredients, I wondered if they were literally correct.’

The three young Aurors were instantly alert.

‘I went and had a word. I thought that if someone was using Polyjuice to pretend to be old Gareth, I’d be able to spot it. I grew up here; I’ve known the old man for years. Nervous as hell when I went in, he was. I asked him a few questions; enough to be sure that he really was old Gareth.’ The Sheriff paused, and stared fiercely at her visitors. ‘Then I asked him how his son and grandchildren were. Almost had a fit, he did. Shaking like a leaf, he was. He gave me some story about them being on holiday, but it was obvious that he was making it up. The last time I saw him looking so frightened was when the Death Eaters kidnapped his daughter-in-law. I was one of the local Bailiffs at the time. He reported it to us, but that was when Thicknesse was in charge. We never found her.’ The Sheriff shook her head sadly. ‘No one has seen her since. Yesterday, after I visited, I had my Bailiffs keep a quiet eye on the place. There’s no sign of his family. I’m worried.’

She stopped, and stared hopefully at them.

‘You think that his son and grandchildren have been kidnapped, and the kidnappers want potion ingredients, not cash, for their release,’ said Harry.

The sheriff nodded. ‘They might be dead already…’

‘But they might not be,’ said Harry. ‘But if he’s already handed over his stock, why haven’t the kidnappers returned his son and grandchildren?’

‘I wondered about that, too. So I asked around. I got this from O’Brien’s Importers in Dublin this morning, and that’s why I called you.’ The sheriff pushed a scroll across the table.

Neville picked up the parchment, unrolled it, and quickly read through it.

‘I’m surprised you called us,’ said Ron. ‘Some sheriffs…’

‘Some sheriffs wouldn’t, I know,’ Dyddgu said. ‘But I’ve known old Gareth for donkeys years, and he knows my staff, the local Bailiffs, well enough to make any enquiry difficult for us. And besides, the Auror Office is better placed to mount a surveillance operation. I don’t want anything to happen to young Gareth and his kids.’

‘I know that we’re still investigating the murder at Justin’s place, Harry,’ said Neville, looking up from the parchment. ‘But, in eight days, Beaker and Rodd are expecting a huge delivery from Ireland. Look at the items on this list.’ He pushed the scroll along the table to allow Harry to read it.

Ron peered over Harry’s shoulder, read down the list, and swore. ‘Dementor Essence, lots of it; and a lot of other familiar ingredients,’ he said.

‘You’re interested?’ the Sheriff asked.

‘Very interested,’ Harry told her. ‘I’d be grateful if you kept this quiet, Dyddgu. I’ll need to speak to my boss, but I’ll try to get an Auror surveillance team out here later today. They’ll be very discreet, I promise.’

‘Keep me informed, Harry,’ the Sheriff ordered.

‘Of course,’ Harry promised. ‘I’ll let you know what we’re doing as soon as I know myself.’

‘And I don’t want…’

‘None of us want any harm to come to the kids, Sheriff,’ said Ron firmly. He turned to Harry, ‘If you want to go and talk to Robards, mate, just go. Nev and I can deal with Dung,’ he suggested.

‘Is he the man you’ve just put in one of my holding cells?’ the sheriff asked.

‘He won’t be there much longer,’ Harry assured the sheriff as he checked his watch. He turned to his colleagues. ‘Thanks, Ron, but I’ll speak to Dung. You two head back to the office, and let our bosses know what’s happening.’

Ron pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Robards...’

‘The Wasps are playing today Ron, the match starts in an hour,’ Harry said. ‘Head Auror Robards will have finished early, to get to Wimbourne. His deputy will be in charge, and I think Nev will be able to persuade Mrs Blood to set up surveillance immediately.’ He turned to the Sheriff, ‘If that’s okay with you, Dyddgu. I don’t think much will happen for a few days, but…’

The Sheriff nodded. ‘I agree with you, I think we’re dealing with a kidnapping, and that the kidnappers are stringing old Gareth along until he receives this big order from Ireland. Even so, the earlier you can get someone watching the place, the happier I’ll be.’

‘Thanks, Sheriff, we’ll be in touch,’ Harry said as he led his friends from the office.

The moment the Sheriff closed her door, Harry turned to his friends. ‘Nev,’ he began.

‘I’ll speak to Patience and organise the surveillance,’ said Neville. There was a tinge of sorrow in his voice. Auror Patience Blood had trained, and later worked closely with, Neville’s parents. She had become a friend of the family, and was always amenable to any suggestion Neville made. He invariably worried that he was taking advantage of her feelings.

‘It’s the right thing to do,’ Harry assured him.

‘What about the surveillance team, Harry?’ Neville asked. ‘I think Webb, Fortescue and Griffiths would be best.’

‘Definitely,’ said Harry. ‘And don’t forget to let Sheriff Phillips know.’

‘I won’t,’ Neville promised.

‘Ron, Yvonne will still be in the office,’ Harry continued. ‘Ask her to arrange a meeting with Mr Robards for first thing in the morning.’

Ron hesitated for a few moments before replying. ‘I’m not sure about first thing,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask her to pencil us in for an early meeting, depending upon tonight’s result. If the Wasps win, we’ll see him first thing, because he’ll probably agree to anything. But, if they lose, we’d better wait until later, until after he’s shouted at someone else.’

Harry smiled, and nodded in agreement. Robards’ personal assistant was a recent appointment, and Harry had been impressed by the woman’s cheerful competence. Yvonne knew her boss, and seemed unperturbed by the Head Auror’s volatility.

* * *

‘I’ve just spoken to the Bailiff who searched you,’ Harry told Mundungus Fletcher.

He sat down directly opposite the prisoner. The Polyjuice Potion had worn off, and the scruffy little man was shuffling uncomfortably in robes which were now much too big for him. He scratched his unshaven chin and gave Harry a hopeful half-smile.

‘According to this, you’re Ebenezer Jones, you live in Barry, and you’re registered as unemployed in this office.’ Harry placed a shabby leather wallet on the desk in front of Fletcher. ‘The Bailiff has been through the wallet, Dung. It seems that you’re also: Wilfred Dryden from Penge, registered as unemployed in the Diagon Alley Office; and you’re Angus McNamara from Leith, registered in Edinburgh; and Norman Barraclough from Netherthong which, much to my surprise, turns out to be a real place; Norman is registered in York.’

‘It’s just a misunderstanding,’ Fletcher began. ‘I can explain.’

Harry banged his fist on the table, and the little man fell silent.

‘It’s fraud, Dung,’ Harry said, staring into Mundungus Fletcher’s now worried face. ‘You’re stealing money which is supposed to be going to the poor and unemployed.’

Fletcher opened his mouth, but saw Harry’s face and decided to stay silent.

‘Don’t you dare try to claim that it’s only Ministry money, and the Ministry can afford it,’ Harry shouted. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering to talk to you. Everyone used to tell me that Dumbledore thought you were useful, but I can’t see why. Mad Eye certainly never trusted you!’

‘Mad Eye never trusted nobody,’ said Fletcher hopefully. He looked into Harry’s face and again fell silent.

‘You’re a thief and a fraudster, Dung, and you’ve been caught red-handed.’ Harry spoke with dangerously quiet anger. Fletcher looked up nervously, sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Once you’ve told me where you got the Polyjuice potion from, I’m handing you over to the Sheriff for processing. She’s going to contact the other Law Offices.’

‘You can’t, ‘arry,’ Fletcher pleaded. ‘They’ll send me to Azkaban. I was in the Order, remember. That place is full o’ Death Eaters. They’ll murder me.’

Harry ignored him. ‘Where did you get the Polyjuice Potion?’ he asked.

‘I, er, borrowed a load of ingredients from Moody’s place after, well, after…’

‘After you Disapparated, and left him to die,’ Harry shouted, clenching his fists.

‘Well, ‘e din’t ‘ave no use fer it!’ Fletcher protested. ‘I’ve ‘ad the ingredients fer years. I got this mate, ‘e’s called Tepid; ‘e’s a wiz wiff potions, ‘e brewed up a few batches fer me, in exchange for half my stash o’ ingredients. I ain’t got much potion left. Enough for one more round of claims, that’s all,’ he admitted. ‘I wuz gonna call it a day when I’d run out. Just my luck!’

‘So, you don’t have a supplier?’ Harry asked.

‘No,’ Fletcher said, sounding annoyed. ‘An’ after ‘e gave me the potion, Tepid tole me that these days you can get a great price fer Polyjuice ingredients on the black market, tole me I’d’ve made more if I’d sold the ingredients instead of using ‘em. Wish I had! I’d never ‘ave run into you, that big ginger berk an’ the other bloke.’

‘Nice story, but it sounds like this “Tepid” bloke will be more use to me,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll let the Bailiff’s deal with you.’

‘Wait,’ Fletcher said. ‘Please, ‘arry, what more d’yer want? I hear stuff. There must be something you want.’

‘Gregory Goyle, Marcus Flint, Millicent Bulstrode, Miles Bletchley and Daphne Greengrass, where are they?’ Harry asked.

‘If I knew that, I’d be collectin’ the reward, wouldn’t I?’ Mundungus grumbled. ‘They reckon Goyle has a mansion somewhere, hidden under a Fidelius Charm, an’ he won’t tell the rest of ‘em where it is. So yer lookin’ fer: Goyle; Flint and Bulstrode; and Bletchley and Greengrass.’

‘I’d heard that, too,’ Harry said. ‘You haven’t actually told me anything yet, Dung. But, Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson were best friends at school. I’ve heard rumours that they’re still in contact. Is _that_ true?’

Fletcher’s face fell. ‘Bloody ‘ell, Harry! The Parkinson bird is livin’ wiff Theodore Nott! If you fink I’m gonna get myself tangled up wiff a bleedin’ Nott you must be off yer trolley. I’d rather take my chances in Azkaban.’

‘Okay,’ Harry said. He stood and walked towards the door.

‘Wait,’ Fletcher begged. ‘Okay, okay! I heard that Greengrass ain’t happy bein’ on the run wiff Bletchley. It’s one fing fallin’ for a dangerous outlaw ... romantic an’ all that ... or so they say.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘But it’s another fing goin’ on the run wiff one. All that hidin’ out an’ runnin’ around! A lot o’ posh birds don’t mind a bit o’ rough, but they don’t actually wanna live rough. If you wanna know more—well—I hear she writes to her kid sister as well—I definitely didn’t tell yer to ask Parkinson about it, okay?’

* * *

Black clouds were blowing up from the south as Harry strode rapidly down the street. The Menai Strait was on his right, and the blustery breeze blowing from the shore brought with it the smells of the sea. When he reached Ginny’s house, he looked around, opened the gate, and vanished from Muggle view.

Pulling out his key, Harry unlocked her door, opened it, and called, ‘Hi, Ginny.’

Shrugging off his long black Auror coat, he looked for a space on the coat pegs on the wall next to the door. He placed it between her dragonskin motorcycle jacket and the knee-length green leather coat she’d recently bought.

‘Kitchen,’ she shouted, sounding slightly relieved. ‘You’re twenty minutes late, is everything okay?’

‘I’ve been to Cardiff, to the Sheriff’s Office,’ he called. ‘I was there longer than I expected. Rather than Floo back to the office and change…’

‘You came straight here,’ Ginny said as she appeared at the kitchen door, a towel in her hand. She finished drying her hands and threw the towel onto the table behind the door. ‘I do love a man in uniform,’ she added.

‘All men in uniform?’ Harry asked.

‘Only this one,’ she assured him. Ginny was wearing baggy cargo trousers, and a cropped t-shirt. She walked up to him and, before he could stop her, she grabbed his grey tie to pull him down for a kiss.

‘Don’t,’ Harry began as she reached for his tie, but he was too late. The tie unwrapped itself from his neck, snaked around Ginny’s wrists, and tied them together.

Ginny stepped back and looked at her hands in surprise. ‘Interesting,’ she said. She grinned wickedly. ‘If this is your thing, Harry, you only have to ask.’

‘You know what my “thing” is,’ he told her. ‘It’s you.’

She lifted her bound wrists over his head, pulled him down to her level, and they kissed.

‘Care to explain?’ she asked him when they finally parted. She kept her bound hands behind his neck.

‘The tie-me-up-tie, as George insists on calling it, was Terry’s idea…’ Harry began.

‘I’m having a hard time picturing Terry tying up Fenella,’ Ginny interjected.

Harry laughed, and kissed her nose. Ginny’s eyes sparkled.

‘Do you want me to tell you why, or are you going to keep interrupt...’

‘What do you think?’ asked Ginny.

‘I think that the Harpies training session went very well today,’ he said, gazing into her mischievous face. He pulled out his wand and reached behind his neck to touch it to the tie.

The tie unfastened itself, and Harry put it in his pocket. Ginny simply clasped her hands together and kept them on his neck, her eyes bored into his. She said nothing, so he continued.

‘Terry, Susan and Polly were making an arrest a couple of weeks ago,’ he explained. ‘They’d disarmed the suspects, but the biggest of them—he was enormous—grabbed Terry’s tie and tried to strangle him with it. Polly and Susan managed to Stun the guy, and Terry wasn’t badly hurt, but when it was discussed afterwards, at the arrest debriefing, Terry suggested that George make another change to the uniform. It’s a neat little enchantment.’

‘And in future, anyone who physically attacks an Auror by grabbing his tie is going to be in trouble,’ Ginny completed Harry’s explanation.

‘What a clever girl,’ said Harry with mock condescension.

‘Don’t make me smack you,’ she threatened. He winked at her. ‘How did you know that training went well?’ she asked.

Harry placed his hands on her bare waist, pulled her closer, and smiled. ‘There’s a big difference between Ginny after a bad day’s training and Ginny after a good day’s training. And this is definitely good day Ginny,’ he told her.

He bent forwards. His intention was to, once again, kiss her nose, but Ginny had other ideas.

Later, when they parted, the rain was hammering on the living room windows.

‘Now I’m really hungry,’ said Harry. 

‘Meat and potato pie, Mum’s recipe,’ said Ginny as she wriggled back into her t-shirt. ‘I was just checking it when you arrived. It should be ready soon.’

‘Are you allowed…’ Harry began.

‘Melinda said...’ Ginny pursed her lips, craned her neck forwards, and adopted the splay-footed, arm-waving, stance of the Harpies new dietician. Putting on a shrill and rather nasal voice, she continued, ‘Tonight you can eat whatever you like. You can even have alcohol in moderation, but _not_ Firewhisky. And remember that tomorrow morning you begin the pre-match diet.’

Ginny returned to her normal posture and turned on her heels. As Harry followed her down the hall and into the kitchen, she continued talking to him over her shoulder. ‘I told her that I haven’t touched a drop of Firewhisky for more than a year, and asked if moderation meant that I could share a bottle of wine with my boyfriend. Melinda asked what I was cooking, checked Mum’s recipe, and declared it much too rich for tomorrow and completely unacceptable for a match day. Then she said it sounded nice, and recommended a Muggle wine.’

‘You like her, really, don’t you?’ Harry asked.

‘She’s annoying, intense, earnest, and passionate about her job. And she talks a lot of sense,’ said Ginny, a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Remind you of anyone?’

‘No comment,’ said Harry, grinning.

‘A lot of the girls were sceptical when Gwenog introduced her at the start of the season. Including me,’ Ginny admitted. ‘But she seems to be doing us some good. Linny has actually put on weight, but it’s in the right places, and she’s playing better than ever.’

Ginny checked the oven, and turned to face her boyfriend. ‘It’s almost done. I’ll cook the vegetables; it’ll only take five minutes. You can set the table and open the wine. You know where everything is.’

Harry examined the wine, a Beaujolais-Villages, and set to work.

‘Have they told you what’s happening tomorrow?’ he asked as he handed Ginny a full glass. She smiled her thanks, and began serving the meal. ‘That smells great,’ he added.

‘Thanks, Harry,’ said Ginny, accepting the compliment before answering the question. ‘It’s the day before the match, and we’re finally moving on to the new pre-match training schedule. When we left the ground we were all issued with our breakfasts for tomorrow; muesli, yoghurt, and fruit juice. It’s in the pantry, don’t touch it. We’re to eat before nine, and we can’t have anything else to eat or drink, except water. Then it’s a trip to the stadium to arrive no later than ten, and we’re off to Ballycastle by Floo. Final training is tomorrow afternoon in Ballycastle, and then it’s a quiet night in our hotel. No visitors; and a strictly regulated diet until after the game.’ Ginny then turned her attention to the vegetables. ‘The cabbage is done, if you drain it, I’ll start serving the pie.’

As they ate, Ginny asked, ‘Will you be able to make it to the match on Sunday, Harry?’

‘Of course.’ He nodded. ‘Although I may have to leave before it’s over. Tell your Seeker she has two hours to catch the Snitch before I have to leave for work. You know I’m on late shift—five ‘till three, from Sunday to Tuesday. I probably won’t see you until Wednesday evening.’

‘Because of my England commitments,’ Ginny nodded, and changed the subject. ‘You still haven’t told me anything about your day. Are you any further forward? Any news on the murdered American Muggle, Mr...’ Ginny stopped, struggling for the name.

‘McCoy.’ Harry supplied. ‘Daniel G McCoy.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Neville, Ron and I spoke to Draco yesterday. I let Ron do the talking; you know how much he enjoys “interrogating” Draco.’ Harry’s face creased into amusement at the memory. ‘To be fair, Draco came to the same conclusion I did. He reckons that the prefect’s badge was “a pathetic attempt by that oaf Goyle to frame him.” It took us no time at all to make certain that Draco was in Malfoy Manor when the attack took place. Other than that, we’ve drawn a blank.’

‘Oh, Harry,’ Ginny reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

‘It can’t be helped,’ said Harry. ‘The killer—we can’t be certain that it was Goyle—stole a few books, a lot of potion ingredients, and then Apparated away. He, or she, could be anywhere. We spent the morning looking at Fenella’s crime scene images, which I have to say are brilliant. But we haven’t found anything new. Then we got a call from the High Sheriff of Wales...’

Harry was still talking about his trip to Cardiff when they finished their dessert, rhubarb crumble and custard.

‘Neville got in touch with me just before I left the Welsh Office. The surveillance team is in place, they’re keeping a very close watch on Beaker and Rodd Apothecary. The fugitives are gathering up an enormous amount of potion ingredients, and not only to make Polyjuice potion. We think they’re trying to manufacture that love/hate potion they used on you last year.’

Ginny grimaced at the memory, leaned over the table, and kissed him.

‘Let’s go through the living room,’ Ginny suggested. ‘The dishes can wait.’ She led him through to the sofa, waited until he sat, and then snuggled in at his side.

‘I really wanted to talk to you about what Dung said,’ Harry began. ‘We know that Daphne was helping the fugitives last year. She tried to hide the transactions from us, but Terry and Al Webb have documentary proof that, even though she wasn’t on the run at the time, she was paying the rent on the places they were using as hideouts. But Dung seems to think that—now—she would betray them.’ His disbelief was obvious in his voice. ‘That she would betray her boyfriend...’

‘Harry,’ Ginny interrupted. ‘In a way it’s great that you find it difficult to believe that any girl, even Daphne, would turn on her boyfriend.’ She shook her head, and hugged him. ‘You still don’t know much about girls, do you? And you know nothing about Daphne Greengrass.’ She gave a short, tinkling laugh. ‘I’m beginning to think that Mundungus Fletcher knows more about girls than you do.’

Harry stiffened. Ginny turned her head, stared into his eyes, and kissed him lightly.

‘It’s lovely, Harry,’ she told him. ‘But I’m sure Dung’s right. When we were at school, Daphne liked to think that she was a rebel. She was never interested in Draco because Draco was rich and posh, and her parents would have approved of him. Daphne wanted a lower class of villain and, eventually, she collared Bletchley. When her parents found out about him, they banned the relationship, which was _exactly_ what she wanted. She probably convinced herself that she was in love with him. There is a certain romance to having a dangerous boyfriend you know. Why do you think you get all those crazy letters from your fans?’

‘I’m not dangerous,’ Harry protested. Ginny quietened him with a glance.

‘I know, but a lot of people think that you are, and that’s almost the same thing. Besides, dangerous things happen around you. Last year I was targeted simply because I’m your girlfriend, remember?’

Harry frowned and nodded.

‘I bet that, when Daphne went on the run with him, whatever romance she’d found in being involved with an outlaw was very quickly knocked off its broom by the hard Bludger of reality. For almost a year she’s been dealing with the real Bletchley twenty-four hours a day, and she probably doesn’t like him. Don’t look like that, Harry! Sometimes girls like the idea of the boy, not the boy himself.’ She kissed him again.

‘Fortunately, by the time we started going out together, I’d managed to get past the idea of Harry Potter. I knew who you really were. That wasn’t true for Michael or Dean and, when I figured that out, everything went wrong. But, most importantly, by the time we started going out I liked _you_.’

‘I liked you, too. But I was only just starting to realise who you were,’ Harry admitted. ‘And you still surprise me.’ Ginny moved onto his lap, and they kissed again.

‘Daphne and Pansy were good friends at school, and Dung thinks that Pansy knows what’s going on. Do you think I should go and talk to her?’ Harry asked between kisses.

‘Merlin, no!’ Ginny said, disentangling herself from his arms.

‘No?’ said Harry, confused.

‘No! You’d be useless,’ said Ginny firmly. ‘If you want information from Pansy, send a woman. Send Lavender.’

‘Lavender…’

‘She’s a trainee Auror, Harry. You, Hermione, and Ron got the anti-werewolf legislation repealed to get her into the Ministry. And she probably knows more about Daphne than anyone else—other than Pansy. They’re related you know? They’re second cousins or something. But the Greengrasses are wealthy Purebloods, and the Browns are working-class Half-bloods.’ Ginny held up a hand to stop her boyfriend from speaking.

‘I know that the Pureblood argument isn’t important. What’s important is that you didn’t keep up with the gossip at Hogwarts. Lavender did! She can gossip. Merlin, she can gossip! And she more importantly, she will be able to see the romance in having a dangerous “on the run” boyfriend.’

‘There’s nothing romantic about being on the run,’ Harry said.

‘And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t be the one to see Pansy, Harry,’ she told him firmly. ‘You can’t see the romance. Lavender can. She reads all those silly romances. She may even believe that the heroine can redeem the bad boy rather than become his next victim. I’m sure that when Daphne ran off she had all these romantic ideas about fame and outlaws and hideouts and stuff, and the reality is...’

‘The reality is arguments, hunger, and a cold tent,’ Harry supplied. ‘And her face on a wanted poster.’

‘Exactly! Send Lavender to see Pansy. They can bitch about the useless stupid boys they’ve gone out with…’ Ginny placed a finger on her boyfriend’s lips, to prevent his protests. ‘You don’t need to defend Ron every time! Lavender and Pansy can talk about Daphne’s poor choice in blokes. You should probably send her to talk to Daphne’s little sister, too, Wisteria, or whatever she’s called. It will work, trust me. And when it does, you can tell me what a clever girl I am.’


	7. Chelsea Girl, Soho Gang

**7 Chelsea Girl, Soho Gang**

Bobbie Beadle used her teeth to tear the Sellotape. Dropping the roll of tape onto the base of her locker, she bent down and carefully taped the large manila envelope to the underside of the shelf. When she was satisfied that it wouldn’t fall, she hung her uniform on the bar beneath it. The envelope wasn’t well concealed, but a police station locker room was secure, wasn’t it? Closing the locker door and padlocking it, she looked warily around the empty room.

Scolding herself for her paranoia, Bobbie slipped the locker key into the pocket of her jeans and adjusted her crop-top. Picking up her jacket and shoulder bag, she again looked around the locker room. It was still empty. Satisfied that she was alone she transferred her can of pepper spray into her bag, making sure that the second envelope was still there. Picking up her baton, she wrapped it inside her jacket. She’d be in trouble if anyone discovered that she’d taken both the spray and baton out of the station, but she didn’t care.

She’d suffered eight days of cruel jokes at her expense. Now she was angry.

She was also a little frightened.

The post mortem examination of Daniel McCoy had discovered that he was dead, but nothing more. Apart from the obvious, that he wasn’t breathing and his heart wasn’t beating, he was in good health. No heart disease, nothing at all to indicate cause of death. As the duty doctor had said at the crime scene, he’d simply stopped being alive.

Bobbie felt responsible. She had failed to prevent the killer from escaping. The mysterious Mr Potter and his friends knew something, but what? Detective Chief Inspector Abberline had been right … bloody spooks!

A couple of days after the incident, Bobbie had spoken at length to Detective Inspector “Gorgeous” George Godley. He’d offered to show her Godley’s gift to women. The oily old lecher had the worst chat-up lines she’d ever heard! She’d had to work really hard to get the information she’d wanted. Eventually, in desperation, she’d agreed to go on a date with him. Tonight! She wasn’t going to go of course. She had a much more important job to do. She was going to sit in her car all night, just as she had the previous evening.

She thought back to her conversation with DI Godley in the station canteen. He’d sat much too close to her, and put his hand on her leg. It had taken all of her willpower not to smack him, but it had been worth it. Godley had allowed Bobbie to see the evidence SOCO had collected. He had also told her about his interview with the house owner’s son, Justin Finch-Fletchley. Godley had described the young man as a “curly-haired toff”, but Bobbie now knew that he was more than that. He was a friend of Potter’s!

Finch-Fletchley had flown in from Romania the day after the burglary. He’d brought his family’s very expensive barrister into the police station with him, even though all he was doing was making a statement. The barrister had provided Godley with a carefully prepared written statement, and had advised his client to refuse to answer any of Godley’s questions.

According to Godley, Finch-Fletchley had a nasty burn-scar on his right arm. It was, according to Finch-Fletchley, the result of an accident in Romania and it had nothing to do with the case. That was the only question the young man had answered. According to the written statement, and despite Potter’s insistence at the crime scene that some things had gone missing, Finch-Fletchley’s barrister had stated that nothing had been stolen.

The householder’s signed statement, combined with the post mortem results, made depressing news for Bobbie. Nothing had been stolen from the house and the dead man had not been murdered by any means known to the pathologist. The following day Godley had put his detectives back on other duties. There was no case and, according to the whispers and rumours now circulating around the station there had never been a case. No murder, no robbery, nothing, just a stupid young beat-plod finding a corpse, panicking, and making up a ridiculous story. But Bobbie Beadle knew what she’d seen, and she wasn’t going to give up.

Harry Potter! It was an ordinary, almost forgettable name for an extraordinary young man.

‘Who was the fit bloke chatting you up? Was he CID? Did you get his number?’ she’d been asked by one of the other female constables when she’d got back to the station.

Mr Harry Potter had certainly made an impression on a couple of the female officers who’d been at the crime scene. Bobbie was prepared to admit that he had a pleasant, fresh-faced and boyish charm. He was the sort who many women found fanciable. The quiet confidence he exuded, coupled with that tousled, slightly rumpled, just-woken-up look were what drew women to him. He was the sort of man a lot of girls found attractive, more attractive than he would ever believe or understand; or so it had seemed to Bobbie on that unforgettable day when he and his friends had walked into her life. But that hint of shyness had probably been an act. He’d been clever enough to fool her.

She remembered every word of her conversation with Mr Harry Potter. ‘We’ll do our very best to bring the killer to justice,’ he’d said. Killer! Justice! He’d looked and sounded so sincere that she had actually believed him! Then, only two days later, the case was closed.

What was she trying to achieve, Bobbie wondered? She was chasing spooks. According to everyone, doing so was a dangerous and possibly career-ending move. But what she’d discovered made no sense at all. It hardly seemed possible! The envelope hidden in her locker contained photocopies of everything she’d found. If she didn’t come back, someone would find them when they emptied it.

If she didn’t come back! Was she being paranoid?

Picking up her bag and jacket Bobbie ensured that her baton was well hidden inside the jacket sleeve and strolled out of the Belgravia Police Station. She nodded to the custody Sergeant as she left.

‘Hot date tonight, Bobbie?’ he asked, grinning. She ignored him. Gorgeous George had apparently been boasting before the event. He’d be disappointed.

Cheyne Walk was only about a mile from Belgravia Nick. Walking there would be easy, and as the afternoon rush was in full swing, it would probably be quicker than driving. Unfortunately, it was possible that she would need her car. That part of Chelsea was a residents-only parking area, which presented another problem.

Still wondering whether she was doing the right thing, she drove out from the police station onto Buckingham Palace Road and inched her way towards Chelsea Embankment. When she reached Cheyne Walk she drove slowly along the narrow, tree-lined street and pulled into a residents parking place, it was the only thing she could do.

This was her second day here. A curious resident had questioned her the previous evening. She had showed him her warrant card and had told him that she was working. She would be in trouble if he checked up on her, but she was in trouble already. She’d broken a lot of rules recently. She’d run a Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency check on two sets of vehicle index plates and carried out several person-checks without due cause. At her recent visit to a newspaper office she had pretended to be on duty and on an active investigation. She wasn’t. It was simply one more misdemeanour, but they were stacking up. Even so, if she could deliver a result to Abberline all would be forgiven. She hoped!

Bobbie settled in for a long night. The previous night had been completely unproductive, with no sign at all of her secondary target, the only one she’d managed to track down.

After an hour spent watching the overly effusive antics of wealthy Chelsea residents with their designer clothes, shoes, handbags, and dogs, Bobbie was bored. She decided she needed a drink. Because she was reaching down into the cup holder for her bottle of water, she almost missed them leaving. They were out of the building and getting into the car when she straightened up. It was fortunate that he was there too.

The girl with bushy brown hair was almost hidden behind a gleaming black BMW X5. Fortunately the tall ginger-haired man with her was easy to spot. Bobbie peered past the BMW. Had the girl never thought of buying a hair-straightener she wondered? She sternly reminded herself to keep her mind on the job. She’d found Granger, and Weasley was with her; she wondered if they were living together.

Bobbie hastily threw her water bottle into the passenger floor well and started her Ka. In most places the Ka would be inconspicuous, but in Chelsea it stood out as being the oldest, and cheapest, vehicle in the street. The brand new bright red Mini whose number plate she’d noted when it had parked at Belgravia Mews pulled out from the kerbside and drove off. Granger was driving, although that wasn’t surprising; it was her car. Bobbie had managed to trace the young woman through the number plate. The DVLA had given her the name and address of the registered keeper: Hermione Jean Granger, Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. It was an exclusive and very expensive address.

Granger had apparently used her real name at the crime scene. Abberline had told her that spooks never used their real names. That seemed odd; but she’d heard Potter say, “You’re not strictly on our staff,” when he’d been talking to her. A check of the electoral register for the address had revealed that Granger’s occupation was “civil servant.” A twenty-one year old civil servant should not, in Bobbie’s opinion, be able to afford a penthouse flat in Chelsea.

At first, Bobbie had tried to trace Potter’s motorbike. She’d been elated when she’d run that number through the system and found that the registered keeper was Harry James Potter of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Islington. She’d gone straight there after her shift the previous Thursday. But her trip had been in vain, as there was no such address. The street itself was there, and eleven and thirteen existed, but not twelve. Disappointed, and wondering whether MI5 had a list of plausible but fake addresses, she had tried tracing Grangers Mini instead.

Bobbie almost lost the Mini at the traffic lights at Chelsea Bridge Road. They had turned left from Royal Hospital Road and she was forced to speed through the lights on amber. She couldn’t risk losing them at the next set of traffic signals, so she decided to move closer. It was risky, but she had little choice.

Soon she was back in familiar territory; Sloane Street, not far from her nick, her beat, the scene of the crime. Her heart began to race … the scene of the crime … surely they weren’t? No, they drove on.

They drove through Knightsbridge and into Piccadilly. At Piccadilly Circus the Mini turned into Soho and slowed down to a crawl. It was obvious that they were looking for somewhere to park.

The Mini pulled into a space and Bobbie drove slowly past, not daring to look at the car or its occupants. Just ahead of her, a white van was pulling out. She accelerated, and swerved quickly into the fortuitously vacant space. She parked badly, as she was concentrating on her mirrors, watching to see where the young couple were going.

They were walking towards her, hand-in-hand, and she got her first good look at them. He wore tan chinos, a white polo shirt with red at collar and cuffs, and a brown leather jacket. She wore a short white skirt, a red paisley print blouse, and a white cotton jacket.

Bobbie locked her car doors and grabbed the pepper spray from her shoulder bag. As they approached her car, she turned her head away from them. Looking over her shoulder, she attempted to straighten her car in the bay. When she looked back into the street they had crossed the road. They had, it seemed, walked past her without a second glance. She sat and watched and waited; she’d get out and follow when they were a little further ahead.

Weasley and Granger stopped outside an Italian Restaurant; Antonio’s, according to the illuminated sign above the door. Bobbie cursed. Why was she wasting her time with this? They were going out for a meal together, that was all. This was simply confirmation that they were a couple. Although the way they’d held hands when they were at the crime scene had been a bit of a giveaway.

They did not, however, go into the restaurant. Instead, Granger waved at someone. Crossing the road towards Weasley and Granger were another young couple. The male was Potter. He was wearing black casual trousers, a green t-shirt and a motorcycle jacket. He was unmistakable. Did he never comb that hair?

The girl at Potter’s side had long, vibrant red hair, and Bobbie recognised her, too. She inhaled sharply, wondering how big the conspiracy was. Bobbie watched the redheaded girl carefully. The girl was smaller than Granger, only a little over five feet tall. She was stunningly pretty, and carried herself like an athlete. The knee length, dark green leather coat she wore was open, revealing a short and low cut green dress.

The two couples smiled at each other and began a conversation. The male Weasley said something which made Potter’s girl clench her fists and step forwards threateningly. Potter tried to calm her down.

As she watched the altercation, Bobbie cursed herself; she should have brought a camera. She pulled out her mobile phone and hastily took a couple of photographs. As she did so, Potter looked straight at her; she’d been spotted!

A black cab sped past, blocking her from Potter’s sight.

As Bobbie watched, Potter turned away and guided the angry red-head onto the pavement. Bobbie breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been wrong, he hadn’t seen her after all; he’d seen the speeding taxi. He was now talking to his friends, his back to her. Ron Weasley opened the door and ushered the others inside, he held the door open for a long time.

Weasley still seemed to be baiting the redheaded girl who, Bobbie knew from her investigations, was either his sister, or a paternal cousin. Eventually, however, the two redheads followed the others into the restaurant.

Bobbie wondered what to do. Now that she’d found Potter, she didn’t want to lose him. Should she risk going into the restaurant, or should she wait outside and try to follow him home? The angry part of her wanted to confront him now. But realistically, she needed to be patient, to find out more.

“Auror Office,” Bobbie had checked that out too. They might claim to be part of the Home Office, but no-one she’d spoken to at the Home Office knew anything about them. Bobbie had pulled in every favour she could and, eventually, she’d discovered was that their work was authorised by Number Ten.

Suddenly uneasy, Bobbie checked that her car doors were still locked. These kids seemed to work for the Prime Minister's Office and they could stop a murder enquiry in its tracks. This was big!

Her throat was dry. She glanced at the restaurant entrance and then checked the street; it was deserted. Deciding to wait Bobbie settled back in her seat. Suddenly thirsty, she reached down onto the floor into the passenger floor well and began to scrabble around for the bottle of water she’d thrown there.

She was still scrabbling for her water when there was a click. Her car doors unlocked themselves and the passenger door opened. A hand reached in and picked up the bottle. As she straightened up in shock, Potter stepped into her car and sat down next to her. She fumbled for her pepper spray.

‘I gave you a phone number,’ he said conversationally. ‘Well, I gave it to DI Godley; but you seem to be pretty clever, I’m sure that you could have found it. If you wanted to talk to me, you could have simply picked up a phone.’

Bobbie Beadle glared at him. He looked down into the still open glove box.

‘Corned beef sandwiches. Ron hates corned beef.’ he observed, ‘You’ve brought food and water. You’re obviously prepared for a long night.’

‘What?’ she spluttered; finally finding her voice. She was annoyed with herself for being spotted, and for not seeing him approach.

‘Sorry,’ Potter said. ‘Frankly, I wasn’t expecting to see you ever again. I don’t know what to say to you, and I’m not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. I thought we were being very clever and careful. But you’ve found us and managed to track us to one of our favourite restaurants. You have no idea how much the Daily Prophet would pay you for pictures of us here.’

‘What?’ she said again.

Now she was furious with herself for failing to ask a sensible question, and for allowing him to take control of the situation. He was babbling, talking nonsense, trying to confuse her; she found the spray in her pocket and readied it. But Harry Potter kept his hands stretched out in front of him, where she could see them. He made no hostile move. Turning his head to face her, he looked her straight in the eyes. His eyes were as amazing as she’d remembered; bottle green, clear, and honest. With an effort she tore her own eyes away from them.

‘Why not join us?’ he asked, ‘When Ron told me that he’d spotted you I suggested that he ask for a table for five instead of our usual table for four. I’m sure that you must have a lot of questions for us, otherwise why go to all this trouble? And I’ve certainly got a lot of questions for you.’

He kept his hands up, palms towards the dashboard. Bobbie didn’t speak, because she didn’t know what to say. She had succeeded in tracking him down. Of all the grim and potentially dangerous outcomes she’d imagined accompanying success, an invitation to dinner from her quarry hadn’t been something she’d planned for. Her handcuffs were in the door pocket.

‘You could handcuff me I suppose,’ Potter said, startling her by the way he second guessed her. ‘But what would that achieve? You can’t arrest me, I’ve done nothing wrong. A civilised discussion over a good meal is the best way isn’t it?’ He was almost pleading with her.

‘I’ll pay for your meal. You can even bring your handcuffs, and that spray thing, with you if it will make you feel safer,’ he offered.

He had a charming, and disarming, smile Bobbie realised. And those bright green eyes really were so open and sincere. Damn him, he was doing it again, making her believe him, believe that he was honest.

‘Is this a trick?’ she asked, finally finding her voice. The corners of his mouth twitched, and his eyes creased. For some reason he found the question very amusing.

‘Trick? No, no tricks,’ he said. He continued to look into her eyes and politely asked, ‘Police Constable Roberta Beadle, would you like to join my friends and me for a meal?’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But I’m keeping this.’ She showed him her pepper spray. ‘So don’t try anything.’

‘I won’t,’ he said seriously.

Bobbie should have been reassured. Unfortunately she wasn’t, as he didn’t sound even slightly worried by her threat. He stepped out of her car, closed the door, and waited politely for her to get out and lock up.

‘How did you sneak up on me, and unlock my car?’ she asked.

‘Magic,’ he replied, smiling.

She snorted dismissively. They walked in silence towards the restaurant.

‘We’ve been coming here for years,’ he told her when they reached the door, ‘I’d hate to have to change restaurants. Beppe wouldn’t be happy either.’

He held the door open for her, but she wasn’t that stupid, she wasn’t going to let him get behind her.

‘You first,’ she ordered. He shrugged and walked upstairs ahead of her.

The restaurant was bright and cluttered with pictures, posters and maps, all of Italy. Just in case customers were still in any doubt, il Tricolore, the Italian flag, hung proudly behind the bar. Harry Potter nodded politely to the waiters and bar staff. It was obvious that he was well known to them. His friends were sitting at a round table covered by a green cloth. The table was set for five, and the two redheads were still arguing.

‘It’s your first away win in three seasons!’ the girl snapped angrily. ‘And we only lost because your new signing, Claire...’

‘You can dissect the game later, Ginny,’ Harry told her firmly.

The girl glared at Bobbie. ‘Sit here,’ she ordered, pointing to a seat between herself and the Granger girl. _Why?_ , Bobbie wondered; _is it because they are not going to let me sit next to their boyfriends, or do they think I’ll feel safer sitting between two girls?_ She needed a plan; she would try to be friendly.

‘Ginny,’ Potter began, ‘this is PC Roberta Beadle …’

‘Perhaps you’d all better just call me Bobbie,’ she said politely. Harry smiled that nice, open, smile again.

‘Bobbie,’ he continued, ‘this is my girlfriend …’

‘Virginia Weasley,’ she interrupted, trying to impress.

They all looked startled, but the girl snorted angrily and shook her head.

‘Wrong! Ginevra!’ she said. ‘But everyone calls me Ginny.’

‘Still,’ Potter said, gazing at Bobbie in admiration, ‘that’s impressive, you’ve got to admit. She’s a Muggle and she’s found you two,’ he nodded to Weasley and Granger. ‘And tracked you to me, and she knows your last name, Ginny.’

Muggle? Bobbie wondered. She knew that the Secret Intelligence Services had their own arcane slang, but Muggle? She’d seen, and heard, that word before somewhere, she realised.

‘She guessed,’ Ginny snapped sarcastically. ‘She heard you call me Ginny and simply guessed that I was Ron’s sister.’

‘I did not!’ Bobbie found herself replying angrily. ‘You went to school together, all four of you. So did the guy whose house was burgled … Finch-Fletchley. You all went to a boarding school in Scotland!’

That announcement, Bobbie was pleased to see, shut them all up.

The Granger girl was astonished, Ron Weasley swore under his breath, Ginny Weasley looked ready to attack. There was fire in the red-headed girl’s eyes. Harry just laughed. He reached across the table and squeezed his girlfriend’s hand and she began to calm down.

‘You _are_ good. Very good!’ he said. ‘I’m impressed, and I’m glad I invited you to join us. Let’s order. I can see that we’ve got a lot to talk about.’

He looked up and the plump and swarthy waiter who had been hovering attentively scurried over. Harry and his friends ordered in good natured confusion. Harry ordered an expensive bottle of red wine, a Reicioto Della Valpolicella and a glass of orange juice for Granger, who was driving. He persuaded Bobbie to accept an orange juice too.

Bobbie looked at the menu. The restaurant was expensive. She began looking for the cheapest items, but Potter immediately realised what she was doing and reminded her that he’d offered to pay. She shook her head.

‘Never mind, Harry’s offer,’ said Ron, grinning. ‘I want to know how you knew we were at school with Justin. I’ll tell you what! I’ll pay for your meal if you can name three more of my schoolmates.’

‘Colin Creevey, Dennis Creevey, Jack Sloper’ she replied promptly.

Ron’s jaw dropped; his friends looked astonished, and then burst out laughing.

‘None of them were in my year,’ Ron protested.

‘Don’t you dare try arguing, Ron! Just pay up,’ Ginny Weasley told her brother. He grinned sheepishly.

‘Harry’s right, very impressive! Just order what you want,’ said Ron. ‘Then we can discuss how you know so much about us.’

The waiter took their order and left. Bobbie suddenly found herself the centre of attention. The two young men opposite her leaned forwards. The two young women at her side moved closer, and Bobbie felt trapped. Ginny Weasley seemed to pick up on her concern, and moved away.

‘Sorry, Bobbie, we’re not trying to intimidate you,’ Ginny apologised. She smiled at Bobbie. ‘I apologise for my behaviour. I had a bad day on Sunday, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. We’re all a little on edge, because you’ve managed to find out so much about us. Please tell us how you did it.’

‘You can start by telling us how you tracked us down to this place,’ Harry suggested.

Bobbie looked at the four, and began the story of her investigations. She told them of how she’d taken the numbers of the motorbike and the Mini when they’d arrived at the crime scene, and how she’d used them to find the registered keeper’s addresses. They all laughed when she said she’d discovered that Harry’s address was fake, but that Hermione’s was real. They refused to tell her what was funny.

‘Finish your story, and once you have, I’ll answer your questions,’ Harry told her.

‘You can’t,’ Hermione hissed worriedly. ‘You can’t tell her anything, Harry!’

Harry shrugged unconcernedly.

Bobbie continued to talk. She had been very busy and had worked very hard over the past week. For days she had wanted to tell someone what she’d discovered. Admittedly the people she’d been investigating would not have been her first choice, but they were interested and excited, and she found their excitement rubbing off on her.

The names and addresses had given Bobbie enough information to check driving licences with the DVLA, and the driving licence information had given her dates and places of birth. She told Harry that, if he was using his own name, then he’d been raised by his aunt and uncle, the Dursley’s. She told Hermione her parents’ names, and that they lived in the village of Itchen Worthy near Winchester. She then told them that neither Harry nor Hermione had gone to secondary school, but both had gone to a boarding school in Scotland.

Bobbie then announced that there was no-one in the country with the surname Weasley. They didn’t exist, hadn’t been born and hadn’t gone to school. Ron laughed so much that he spilled red wine down his white shirt. Hermione looked at him in despair.

‘There are times I wish that were true,’ she said in exasperation, and Bobbie found herself laughing with the rest of them.

After finishing her starter, lentil and porcini mushroom soup, Bobbie continued her story. ‘When I couldn’t find anything out about the Weasley’s, I tried Fenella Gray, but she doesn’t exist either.’

She turned to Harry. ‘I remembered that, when you were at the crime scene, it seemed that you knew the house owner, Justin Finch-Fletchley, so I checked him out. He was down for Eton, but he didn’t go. Instead he went to…’ Bobbie stopped and looked at her audience.

‘A boarding school in Scotland,’ they chorused, smiling. Bobbie was disconcerted. She’d expected denials, bluffs and prevarication. Instead they just sat and listened, and agreed.

‘I couldn’t find out whether it was the same school, not then. But it was a coincidence worth investigating, so I did.’ Bobbie continued.

‘How?’ asked Harry.

‘I was lucky,’ she told Harry, ‘SOCO had already bagged and tagged some items from the living room before you arrived.’

Harry groaned and shook his head. Ginny gave him a confused and questioning look.

‘SOCO: Scenes of Crime Officers,’ Harry explained to Ginny, ‘I’ll need to remember about them, the next time something like this happens. They photograph and catalogue the scene of any crime and they also take away evidence.’

‘I looked through the evidence and found this,’ she pulled a photograph from her shoulder bag. ‘This isn’t the original; we had to give that back to Mr Finch-Fletchley.’

‘Muggle…’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew I’d seen the word before … and Fenella Gray used it, too!’

She handed the copy of the photograph to Harry. While the photo was passed round the table she began to eat her main course. The tension was making her hungry.

The photo showed three teenagers: thin, curly-haired Justin Fitch-Fletchley was flanked by two much shorter youths. Written on the back were the words “Oops, missed the train! Colin Creevey, me, Dennis Creevey at the inaugural meeting of the Muggle-born Freedom Association – 2nd September ’97.”

‘Colin,’ Harry began.

‘Died three years ago, May ‘98, I know,’ Bobbie continued, noting the sorrow in the quartet’s eyes. ‘Fortunately for me, Creevey isn’t a very common surname. I managed to track the names Colin and Dennis Creevey to an address in northern England; then I started phoning local papers and looking at their websites. I told them I was investigation a missing person’s case and that I was looking for anyone called Creevey who had gone to a private school in Scotland. I soon found a local paper which had some information on the Creeveys. They had gone to a local school until eleven then … well, you know the rest.’

‘I was off work Saturday, Sunday and Monday so I drove north and called in to the local newspaper offices. They were very helpful. I decided not to talk to the Creevey boy’s parents, because I didn’t want to reveal myself, but the newspaper offices gave me these.’

She reached back into her bag, pulled out a manila envelope identical to the one she’d left in her locker, and handed it to Harry.

‘These are copies too, so don’t think destroying them will help you.’ She waved her fork threateningly as she continued to eat her salmon with green pea sauce.

Harry shook about a dozen photographs, and a newspaper cutting, from the envelope.

‘Local boy dies hero’s death,’ Harry began reading the newspaper cutting. His suddenly sombre friends fell silent.

‘On Saturday 9th May the funeral of Colin Creevey (age 16) took place at Wolsingham Church. Colin and his brother Dennis both won scholarships to an exclusive private school in Scotland. “It was a dream come true,” his mother said …’ Harry stopped reading, his eyes clouded in sadness.

‘You know the rest,’ he told his friends. ‘This is the cover story put out by Kingsley, that Colin was killed rescuing people from a fire at school.’ Bobbie looked up with interest when she heard the words “cover story”. ‘There are lots of photographs,’ Harry said.

Ginny looked at the photographs and gasped. ‘There was a photographer from the local Muggle newspaper at the funeral,’ she remembered. ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’

‘So had I, said Harry grimly as he passed the photographs around. He leaned towards Ginny showing her one of the photo’s.

‘You look good in black,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Sweet sixteen and never been...’

Ginny slapped his arm playfully.

‘Look at Luna,’ Ron chuckled as he waved another photo. ‘Great boots!’

‘I’m glad Lavender’s okay now,’ Hermione said looking at another photo.

‘Neville’s staring at Hannah in this one,’ Ginny observed. ‘But she’s arm in arm with Justin.’

Bobbie observed their faces with interest. Suddenly, they were simply kids reminiscing about their school days. Bobbie looked over Ginny’s shoulder and found the two photographs she wanted. She pulled them out of the pile and pushed them into the middle of the table. The first showed four youths standing behind a hearse, preparing to carry Colin’s coffin. Bobbie pointed to the youths.

‘Dennis Creevey, Jack Sloper, Harry Potter and Justin Finch-Fletchley, pall-bearers,’ she said.

The second showed a dozen black-clad youths walking from the church yard. Bobbie pointed at the photo and pulled a list of names from her pocket.

‘According to the Weardale Mercury these are Colin’s friends,’ she said. ‘Harry Potter, Virginia Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Anna Abbott, Nigel Longbottom, Fenella Gray, Seamus Finnegan, L. Brown (in wheelchair), Thomas Dean and Laura Goodlove.’

‘It’s a good job you used the names you did,’ Ron laughed, pointing at those incorrectly named. ‘At least we know why you thought that Ginny was Virginia. That’s Hannah, Neville, Lavender … she’s fine now, working with …’

Hermione noisily cleared her throat, and Ron instantly shut up.

‘…and that’s Dean Thomas, and Luna Lovegood,’ Harry finished, ignoring Hermione’s glare.

Bobbie looked at the bespectacled young man in surprise. Harry was looking at her with barely concealed excitement.

‘You did all this yourself?’ he asked, ‘in a week?’

‘Eight days.’ Bobbie said. ‘Eight days with not much sleep.’

‘Why?’

‘Because everybody started making fun of me when the murder investigation was closed…’

‘Closed?’ enquired Harry. ‘When? Why?’

Bobbie told him.

‘So,’ she continued angrily, ‘I decided to try to find out who you were, and why you closed down a murder enquiry.’

A middle-aged couple on the adjacent table heard her outburst, and they began taking an interest in the conversation. Harry noticed; he reached under the table and did something, Bobbie couldn’t see what, but the background noise seemed to change subtly.

‘Muffliato?’ Hermione asked.

Harry nodded.

‘Now,’ he smiled at Bobbie. ‘We can talk freely. A man died eight days ago, during a house burglary. We—well, three of us—Ginny has better things to do with her time—turned up to the crime scene. You believe that we stopped the investigation. Not only that, but it turns out that we all went to school with the house owner. Anyone would find that suspicious.’ He smiled.

‘A man is dead!’ Bobbie snapped angrily. ‘And you know how he died.’

‘Yes,’ Harry nodded.

‘How?’ she asked.

‘He was cursed,’ said Harry quietly. ‘The killing curse, the Avada Kedavra.’


	8. Islington Evening

**8\. Islington Evening**

‘Cursed,’ Bobbie snorted dismissively. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I want the truth. Who killed him?’

‘My guess; and it’s just a guess, because I’ve absolutely no proof,’ said Harry quietly, ‘is that it was a wizard named Gregory Goyle. We went to school with him, too, by the way. It may have been another: Marcus Flint, or possibly even Miles Bletchley, but we won’t know until we catch them.’

‘Wizard!’ Bobbie clenched her fists angrily and leaned forward. When she uncurled an accusatory forefinger Harry held up his hands in defeat and leaned back in his chair.

‘We usually order dessert now, Bobbie, but I don’t think we will tonight,’ Harry said quietly. He turned to his friends. ‘Does anyone mind if we simply get the bill now, and go back to my place for coffee, cake and an interesting discussion with this inquisitive young lady? If we’re going to answer her questions honestly, we need to be somewhere private,’ he said.

Bobbie realised that, because of her actions, they were being watched by almost everyone in the restaurant; she sat back in her chair and tried to relax.

Hermione looked scandalised by Harry’s suggestion. ‘You can’t,’ she announced. ‘You simply can’t! It’s not possible. You’d be breaking the International…’

‘Hermione, just look at what she’s found out,’ Harry indicated the photographs. ‘We need to talk to her, and we shouldn’t be doing it here.’ Harry argued.

‘Ron,’ Hermione turned to her boyfriend, looking for support. Ron was looking rather worried, his eyes flicked from Hermione to Harry and then to Ginny. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

‘Harry’s right, Ron,’ announced Ginny forcefully. ‘You know he is.’

‘Harry’s right!’ Ron mimicked her tone sarcastically. ‘That’s all you ever say these days, Ginny.’

‘No it isn’t!’ Harry and Ginny spoke simultaneously. Ginny smiled at her boyfriend, but he didn’t return the smile.

‘You should apologise to Ron, Ginny,’ Harry told her.

‘Apologise!’ she snapped angrily. ‘He started it. The first thing he said to me was “hello, loser.” Even before he even told us that he’d spotted _her_ ,’ Ginny’s fiery gaze scorched Bobbie, ‘he was...’

Yeah,’ Ron snapped. ‘But...’

‘But you’re merciless to him when the Cannons lose, Ginny,’ said Harry cutting across the feuding siblings as Hermione continued to protest.

‘Which is most of the time,’ said Ginny, smirking.

‘See!’ said Ron triumphantly.

‘Just cut it out, Ginny,’ ordered Harry. ‘Live with it, please! The Harpies lost to the Bats, and the Cannons beat the Catapults, and Ron rubbed your nose in it! Ron takes worse from you, a lot worse, after almost every game.’

‘That’s different!’

‘No, Ginny, it isn’t,’ Harry said. ‘You’re a bad loser. I know that it’s hard, especially the way you were beaten. You were ninety points in the lead! You would have won, if they hadn’t caught the Snitch.’

‘They wouldn’t have, if Claire O’Hare hadn’t blocked our Seeker...’

‘She did exactly what you’d have done, if you hadn’t been at the other end of this pitch, scoring ... but Bobbie has no idea what we’re talking about, and this is important! Now, can we forget about Quidditch?’ Harry asked her.

For a moment, Bobbie thought that Ginny was going to explode. ‘Forget about Quidditch!’ Ginny snapped, astonished.

At the same instant, Ron said, ‘It’s not as important as Quidditch.’ The siblings stared at each other, and began to laugh.

‘I’m leaving,’ said Harry, sounding annoyed. ‘If you want answers, Bobbie, come with me. What about the rest of you?’

‘I’m coming,’ said Ginny. ‘Gloat while you can, Ron, it won’t last long.’

Ron shrugged. He and Hermione exchanged a glance, and Hermione gave a reluctant nod.

‘Somebody has to watch your back, mate,’ said Ron. ‘And it looks like it’s up to me and Hermione again.’

Before anyone could change their mind, Harry called the waiter over and asked for the bill. This caused some confusion, as the man had obviously been expecting them to order dessert. After a curious glance at Bobbie, he left.

The moment the bill arrived, Harry placed more than enough cash on the table to cover his and Ginny’s meal. Ron glanced at the total and pulled several more notes from his wallet. It covered the other three meals, and added a substantial tip.

‘No,’ Bobbie began, reaching for her bag. Ron dismissed Bobbie’s protests with a wave of his hand.

‘I said I’d pay,’ Ron told her. ‘Keep your money, Bobbie. Just make sure that you collect all of your papers.’ He indicated the photographs scattered across the table.

By the time Bobbie had replaced all of the photographs and newspaper cuttings back into her bag, the bill was paid. As they left, all four apologised to the waiter for their abrupt departure. He nodded politely to the quartet, obviously regular customers, but when Bobbie passed his nod was more perfunctory.

‘You two go ahead,’ Harry told Ron and Hermione as they descended the stairs from the restaurant. ‘Ginny and I will travel with Bobbie in her car. She’ll need to be given directions.’

Ron and Hermione strode down the pavement towards the Mini, Hermione taking three steps to every two of her boyfriend. From the urgent movements of their heads, Bobbie was certain that they were discussing her.

As she slowly walked towards her own car Bobbie wondered whether she was being incredibly foolish. She was allowing herself to be taken into the lair of her enemies. But her enemies appeared to be nothing more than two couples, including two squabbling siblings. She dawdled, allowing Harry and Ginny to draw slightly ahead, and she observed their behaviour closely.

They were hand-in-hand, strolling unconcernedly towards her car, looking like an ordinary, if well-off, young couple. Their behaviour wasn’t that of two dangerous spies trying to kidnap her.

She heard Ginny say, ‘Sorry, Harry. But we _lost_!’

‘So am I,’ said Harry. ‘But don’t blame Bobbie. She’s doing her job, and she’s certainly not to blame for the Harpies losing.’

‘I know,’ said Ginny. She leant in to him and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. When they reached her car, Harry and Ginny turned and watched her approach.

‘You’re uncomfortable,’ Harry said to her. ‘What can we do to make you less suspicious of us? Should we walk? It will take almost half an hour?’

‘Harry and I could sit in the back seat and snog. That’s what we used to do when Hermione got her first car,’ Ginny offered. ‘It used to drive Ron mad.’

‘Except I need to direct her,’ Harry said.

Ginny looked up and down the street, it was almost deserted. She shook her head.

‘No you don’t,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll tell her now. She already knows where to go, Harry, she’s told us. She simply can’t find it.’

‘Perhaps I should have suggested Hermione’s place,’ Harry said.

‘Trust your instincts, they’re usually good,’ Ginny told him. She turned and looked up into Bobbie’s face. ‘Have you got a pen and paper?’ she asked.

Bobbie scrabbled through her shoulder bag and handed Ginny a pen. She then tore off the top flap of the envelope full of photographs and handed it to Ginny, who wrote a short note on it.

‘Read this,’ she told Bobbie, holding it in front of her face. Bobbie did so.

In a flamboyant scrawl, Ginny had written “Harry Potter lives at 12 Grimmauld Place”. As she read it, Bobbie lost her temper. She tried to grab the paper, but Ginny crumpled it up, threw it in the air and pulled an impossibly long stick from her tiny handbag.

‘ _Incendio_ ,’ she said, and the paper ball burst into flames.

Bobbie looked at her in astonishment.

‘Ginny!’ said Harry worriedly.

‘It’s the only way, Harry,’ said Ginny. She pushed the stick back into her bag, turned to Bobbie and waved an accusing finger at her. ‘You’re the one who’s been investigating us. You wanted to find out what was going on,’ Ginny told her, her eyes blazing. ‘Harry has never been a very good liar. He’s been telling you the truth, I’ve no idea why, but he usually knows what he’s doing.’

‘Ginny has given you the address, Bobbie,’ said Harry. ‘You’ve already tried to find it, so you know where to go.’

‘You’ve interrupted our night out,’ Ginny said. ‘Our fortnightly Wednesday night meetings are for the four of us, they’re for us to catch up, and be normal. Now decide what you’re doing. Either drive us to Grimmauld Place, or leave us alone!’

‘She’s always a bit on edge when her team loses,’ apologised Harry.

Deciding not to revisit the bizarre conversation about Harpies, Catapults and Quidditch, Bobbie unlocked her car. She pulled the passenger seat forwards, and let them both climb into the back. As she walked around the car to get into the driver’s seat, she tried to gather her thoughts. Her car was a two-door, so she had them trapped. They wouldn’t dare do anything to her while they were moving, she could take them anywhere.

But...what had she just seen?

Had the paper had been chemically treated to burst into flames? It was her paper! Perhaps it was the ink in the pen? But it was her pen, too! It must be a trick, but how?

Bobbie made her decision. She’d take them to the nonexistent house in Grimmauld Place and drive slowly past, when she’d proved that the house wasn’t there, she would drive them back to her own flat.

She started her car and drove off. When she got back to her flat, what then? She didn’t know. They were so difficult to question, so self assured, so confident. She looked in her mirror at the couple on the back seat. And so busy snogging, she realised. She was driving slowly and carefully into Islington. The young couple were, she thought, potentially dangerous, yet all they were doing was snogging on her back seat. She snorted in frustration. This was insane.

‘Harry’s right. I’m always hard on Ron. But he’s my brother, he should expect it,’ said Ginny when she came up for air. ‘I’m simply trying to make Harry see my side of things.’

Bobbie ignored this remark and drove on in silence. As she made her way through the crowded streets, she tried to come up with a better plan, and failed. Eventually she was driving through a quieter, residential, area and turning into Grimmauld Place. She saw Hermione Granger’s red Mini immediately. It was parked … it was parked outside number twelve. The house which didn’t exist suddenly _did_ exist! It seemed to have squeezed itself into existence between the two neighbouring properties.

It was impossible! Bobbie knew there was no such address. She had walked up and down the street several times. There was no such property as twelve, Grimmauld Place. Now, somehow, there was! Stunned, Bobbie drove past the Mini and parked in the first available space, which was a little way beyond the house and on the opposite side of the road. Ginny and Harry were looking at her, they seemed concerned.

‘Are you all right?’ Ginny asked.

‘Come inside, coffee will be ready by now,’ Harry told her.

When she finally let go of the steering wheel, Bobbie’s hands were shaking. She groped for the door handle and, eventually, opened it. She staggered out into the cool evening air and fumbled with the seat. Harry helped. He pushed the seat forward, climbed out and held onto Bobbie’s arm to steady her. Ginny followed Harry from the back of the car and took Bobbie’s other arm. Between them, they almost carried her up the steps to the front door.

‘I’ll apologise in advance,’ Harry said. ‘Because this is where things are going to get really weird for you. I remember how I felt when I was told I was a wizard. You probably don’t believe what’s happening, but when you see what’s inside, you’ll realise that the world doesn’t work in quite the way you thought it did. I’m sorry.’ He pulled a stick from his pocket and tapped the door. It swung open, revealing a long, brightly lit hallway.

They stepped inside and the door closed. The hallway was painted a pale pastel green. The flickering light from dozens of what appeared to be gas lamps lit several photographs on the wall. Impossibly, these photographs were moving. The first photograph was a panorama, and a portrait. Over two dozen people stood in front of a huge, ancient, castle. Bobbie recognised many of them from the photographs of the funeral. It was labelled “Dumbledore’s Army Reunion: October 2000.”

Next was a framed poster of Ginny. She was wearing long green robes and carrying a broomstick. Above her head were the words _Holyhead Harpies_. Below her feet she was identified as _G.M. ‘Ginny’ Weasley – Chaser_.

‘That’s the first poster they ever did. I think the later ones are better,’ Ginny said. ‘But Harry likes that one for some reason.’

Looking at it, Bobbie knew why. Despite the ridiculous clothes Ginny was wearing, the girl the poster looked slightly shy, a little unsure of herself, and very cute. Then she winked.

Bobbie turned her attention to the next photograph. It showed a young couple with a baby. It was obvious that they were Harry’s parents. Then was a photograph of a gaunt, once handsome, dark haired man. The final photograph showed another family; father, mother and newborn baby. Both mother and baby had bubblegum pink hair. A cruel thing to do to a tiny baby, Bobbie thought. The man was a lot older than the woman. He looked thin and ill, but happy.

At the end of the hall was a door and, leading back in the other direction stairs led to several upper floors. In the open area at the bottom of the stairs hung two paintings, both of the same room, a study. In both, however, there was nothing but an empty chair.

As they approached the door, Bobbie’s head was spinning. Hermione Granger opened the door at the end of the hall and looked at then, concern etched across her face.

‘Harry,’ she said urgently. ‘There are dozens of anti-Muggle charms on the house. They’re all really old and I can’t shift them. I’ve spoken to Kreacher. He can lift them, but only if the Master of the house gives him a direct order.’

‘Sorry Bobbie, I should have realised,’ Harry groaned. ‘Ginny, Hermione, take her down into the kitchen, please.’

The two girls helped her down a flight of stairs into a large kitchen. As they descended the stairs Bobbie heard Harry speak... ‘Kreacher…’ he said, then the door at the top of the stairs closed and she heard no more.

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs Bobbie was beginning to feel better. Her hands were no longer shaking, her mind was beginning to clear and her visit to this strange house was beginning to lose its dream-like quality.

Bobbie took stock of her surroundings. The kitchen was huge and very old-fashioned. Like the hall, it was lit by gas lamps. At the far end of the room were a huge fireplace and an old-fashioned black iron range. Gleaming iron and copper pots hung from hooks on the roof beams.

A huge scrubbed wooden table stood in the centre of the room. Five sturdy-looking old chairs were drawn out at the far end of the table on which stood five mugs, five plates, a large chocolate cake, a jug of cream and a large cafetière of coffee. Hermione and Ginny guided Bobbie to one of the chairs. Ron Weasley was sitting at the table finishing a slice of cake. He helped himself to a second slice.

‘Great cake,’ he mumbled through chocolate smeared lips. ‘One of Kreacher’s best. You all right, Bobbie?’

‘What happened, did you drug me?’ Bobbie asked angrily, reaching in her pocket for her pepper spray. The feel of it in her hand was enough to reassure her.

‘Your disorientation is my fault,’ Harry admitted as he descended the stairs into the kitchen. ‘You haven’t been drugged. This house is magically protected. Some of the protections were affecting you. I’ve had them temporarily removed.’

‘There’s coffee and cake on the table as promised. The coffee is still in the pot, so it can’t be drugged. If you want some cake you’d better be quick. Otherwise Ron will eat the lot,’ Ginny told Bobbie.

Harry sat down opposite her, and Bobbie realised that she was, once again, flanked by Ginny and Hermione. Hermione sat opposite Ron and glared at him, and the cake. He ignored her and finished his second piece of cake.

‘Now,’ Harry said. ‘You had some questions for us. Ask away.’

‘Who are you?’ Bobbie started with the basics. Harry looked at Ginny, and suppressed a laugh. It was obvious that he found the question very amusing. So did Ginny, she grinned and winked at him.

‘You’ve never heard of the world-famous Harry Potter? Amazing!’ Ginny began impishly. ‘I’ll go first; I’m Ginny Weasley, professional Chaser for Holyhead Harpies and England. I ride a broomstick for a living. It’s the best job in the world.’

‘Harry Potter, Auror. I work for the Auror Office, Department for Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry for Magic,’ Harry said promptly.

‘Ron Weasley, Auror, I work with Harry, same office, same team,’ said Ron as he ignored Hermione’s glare and picked up a third slice of cake. No one else was eating it.

‘Hermione Granger, I work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Ministry for Magic. We should not be telling you this, Constable Beadle, it’s a clear breach of the International Statute of Secrecy,’ said an unhappy-sounding Hermione.

‘Is it really?’ Harry sounded disappointed. ‘I was hoping that you’d be able to find me a loophole, Hermione. You have read the Statute, haven’t you?’

‘Of course,’ said Hermione, sounding surprised. ‘Haven’t you?’

Her friends grinned at her.

‘You must have,’ she protested. ‘When you join the Ministry you have to sign to say that you’ve read it.’

‘I’m not a Ministry employee,’ said Ginny. ‘And as for these two,’ she indicated Ron and Harry dismissively, ‘really, Hermione! You’ve been doing all of the reading for these idiots since they were eleven! You can’t expect them to start now.’

Bobbie looked at them in disbelief. This was obviously a well-practiced story, they sounded sincere, matter-of-fact, and they were even making jokes. The photo of Ginny in the hall was a good trick, but the idea of a “Ministry for Magic” was preposterous.

Suddenly filled with anger, Bobbie stood and clenched her fists. She wanted the truth, not some ridiculous fairy story. Harry instantly leapt to his feet, a wooden stick in his hand. His friends did the same. Bobbie remembered the blond young man in Belgravia Mews; he had also pointed a stick at her. She staggered as the foundations of her world were shaken by an earthquake of impossibilities.

‘I’ll show you, it’s the easiest way,’ he said. ‘This is my wand.’ He waved the stick, and then pointed it at each of the gas lamps in turn. As he did so, they went out, plunging the room into near darkness.

‘ _Lumos_ ,’ he said, and the tip of his wand lit up bathing them in a low glow. Bobbie was still gasping when Ginny pointed her wand at the lamps, and the room was once again illuminated by their cosy flickering.

Harry extinguished the glow on his wand. ‘ _Accio_ ,’ he said. A pan hurtled towards the room towards him. With another flick he sent it back to the hook it had flown from. ‘Do you need any more demonstrations?’ he asked. Or should we just answer your questions now?’

‘That … that … that …’

‘That was magic,’ Harry told her, waving the stick he was holding. ‘And as I said these are wands.’

Her mind in turmoil, Bobbie looked at the four youngsters. They looked very serious, almost afraid. Harry looked at her sympathetically.

‘We’ve just ended your cosy Muggle view of the world, I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Do you want something stronger to drink? I’ve got Butterbeer, elf wine and Firewhisky. I also have some decent French and Italian red wines, some Italian and German whites, a few bottles of IPA, and some other Muggle beers. Hermione’s dad is a beer drinker and I’m starting to get a taste for it myself.’

Bobbie gazed from face to face. They were nervous. If this was a trick, it was a good one. But she couldn’t think of any way they could have set up the show she’d just seen. She moved to the head of the table and sat down.

‘Sit,’ she ordered. They all did so.

‘You said that you work for the Auror Office, Magical Law Enforcement. What do you do, exactly?’ she asked Harry.

‘We investigate the use of dark magic,’ he told her. ‘Ordinary magical crime: thefts, assaults, minor hexings and stuff like that is dealt with by our colleagues in another section of Magical Law Enforcement; the sheriffs and bailiffs of the regional law offices. We only get involved in cases involving cursed items, death by curse, and dark magic assaults. Basically, we track town and capture dark wizards.’

‘It was Harry’s idea to monitor the Muggle police,’ Ron added. ‘He thought it would be a good idea to check for curse deaths in the Muggle world, because Tom Riddle killed quite a few Muggles.’

‘What are Muggles?’ Bobbie asked.

‘Non-magical folk like you, and most people in the world,’ Hermione said. ‘I was Muggle-born, so was Harry’s mum. The Weasleys are Purebloods, their family have lived apart from the Muggle world—the normal world—for centuries.’

‘That’s why you couldn’t find any record of them,’ Harry added helpfully.

‘So who is this Tom Riddle character?’

‘Very nasty dark wizard, Harry killed him,’ Ron said.

‘I did not,’ Harry replied hotly. ‘He tried to kill me. I tried to disarm him and his killing curse rebounded. He killed himself.’

Bobbie silently stored that piece of information, and moved on to another topic. ‘Why was Mr McCoy killed?’ she asked.

‘We think that he disturbed a burglar,’ Harry replied. ‘It was common knowledge—at least it was common knowledge in the magical community—that Justin was in Romania. He was attacked by a dragon, and it made the papers.’

‘Dragon!’ Bobbie spluttered. ‘I suppose that would explain the burns,’ she added feebly. 

‘Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is Hermione’s area of expertise,’ said Harry.

Hermione frowned, but spoke. ‘Given what Harry has already told you, I suppose I might as well let you know. My department looks after all magical creatures. I specialise in sentient beings, but another office ensures that the native British dragons are kept out of sight.’ Hermione had adopted a lecturing tone as she spoke.

‘Native British dragons,’ said Bobbie weakly. She gulped down some coffee and wished that she’d accepted Harry’s offer, and that she was drinking something stronger.

‘There are two dragon sanctuaries in the UK,’ Hermione explained. ‘The island of Cantref y Gwaelod is hidden in Cardigan Bay, and it’s the home of almost all of the world’s Common Welsh Green Dragons. The majority of the Hebridean Blacks live on Suntkelda, the most westerly island of the Outer Hebrides. The islands don’t appear on any Muggle maps, of course.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Bobbie. She nodded, and began to wonder if she was, in fact, drunk or drugged.

‘Justin has worked in both,’ said Harry. ‘But he moved to the world’s biggest Dragon Sanctuary in Romania.’

‘Our brother, Charlie, works there too,’ Ginny added. Ron nodded in agreement.

‘Justin was injured on Easter Sunday,’ Harry said. ‘As I said, it made the papers on Monday. Not the ones you read, of course, the magical papers. Then, in the early hours of Tuesday morning, you disturbed the killer. We’re currently concentrating our investigation on those people who knew Justin’s address. Someone told the killer where Justin was living, and whoever did it must be able to contact the killer.’

‘We reckon that it’s someone in the Improper Use of Magic Office,’ said Ron. ‘They keep a register of all magical addresses.’

‘Improper Use of Magic,’ Bobbie repeated. She tried to concentrate. If this was a lie, it was a big and complicated one, and it would be easy to catch them out.

‘We think that the burglar had assumed that the house would be empty,’ Harry added. ‘He unlocked the front door and then used a Blasting Curse to blow a hole in the wall and steal various spell books and potion ingredients. McCoy must have heard the noise and come to investigate. The burglar killed him as he was coming down stairs. He drew his wand on you, too, didn’t he? He would probably have killed you, but he heard the sirens and decided that he needed to escape.’

‘Unless he actually wanted to be seen,’ said Ron, turning to Harry. ‘Perhaps he wanted to leave a witness, to be recognised. He must have known we’d turn up and investigate a burglary at Justin’s place.’

‘He just vanished. Where did he go?’ Bobbie paused in thought. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said with a sigh. ‘He turned himself invisible!’

‘That’s how I managed to sneak up on you tonight, while you were sitting in your car,’ Harry told her. ‘Actually, it was a Disillusionment Charm because I didn’t have my cloak with me. But I don’t think that’s what the man you saw did. I think that he Disapparated—transported himself elsewhere. He needed to get out of the Mews before he could do it, because there was an anti-apparition jinx on the place. There is often a bang when someone Disapparates. I think that’s what you heard, not a gunshot.’

Ron, Hermione and Ginny nodded in agreement.

‘You’re our best witness, and it seems to me that you’re a good investigator,’ Harry continued. ‘Perhaps you could help us?’

‘Me, a good investigator?’ said Bobbie, shaking her head dismissively. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You found us, didn’t you?’ Harry asked. ‘And it’s obvious that you want to catch the killer. I do too. I’d like you to work with us, exchange information.’

‘Harry,’ Hermione said. ‘You don’t have the authority.’

‘You’re right,’ Harry told her, he drew his wand and said, ‘ _Expecto Patronum_ ,’ a silver bird shot out from the end of his wand and streaked out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll ask Kingsley.’

‘What was that?’ Bobbie asked as the bird flew up the stairs and through the door.

‘A phoenix, my Patronus. It used to be a stag, but since Ginny and I, well, we both… You don’t need to know that, it’s a long story. The Patronus can be used as method of communication. I’m contacting the Minister for Magic,’ said Harry.

‘Of course you are,’ said Bobbie acidly. Her stomach knotted as she suddenly began to fear that he may, in fact, be telling the truth.

Harry looked at her anxiously. ‘I know that it’s a lot to take in,’ he said.

‘If you want me to work with you,’ said Bobbie. ‘Let me try to identify the blonde guy I saw.’ Although confused and intrigued by Harry’s offer, she continued to question them. ‘You said that you had three names. Do you think that he could be one of them? I got a good look at him. I should be able to tell you which one it was.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ Harry told her, ‘I’m fairly certain that the person you saw looked like Draco Malfoy. But I’m also certain that it wasn’t him. Ron and I have spoken to him.’

Ron gave a smug smile, and nodded.

‘He wasn’t at Justin’s place,’ Harry told Bobbie. ‘He’s under guard, and he was at home at the time. Besides, he’s never killed anyone. And if he had, I’d know, because he’s using my spare wand. Plus, his mother’s in charge now and she’s working hard to improve the families influence. They’ve had more than enough scandals.’

At that moment a silver lynx appeared in the room. It landed on the kitchen table, turned to Harry and spoke in a slow, deep voice.

‘Harry, I will personally authorise further contact with Constable Beadle. I would ask you to keep contact to a minimum. I would prefer if contact was restricted to yourself, and no one else. But if I’m any judge, Ginny, Ron and Hermione already know.’ The glowing semi-transparent lynx sighed, and somehow managed to look annoyed, but resigned. ‘Keep it between yourselves until I can speak to Robards. This is most irregular! I want you in my office at eight o’clock tomorrow, Auror Potter. That is an order,’ the lynx finished sternly. It then vanished.

‘That was Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic,’ Harry explained to an open mouthed Bobbie. ‘At least it was his Patronus.’

They continued talking for hours, answering the dozens of questions Bobbie asked. By midnight Bobbie had heard a short history of the defeat of Tom Riddle. She had also, by asking the same question in different ways at different times, tried to find a flaw in their story. She had failed. Either this was the most bizarre, and well rehearsed cover story she’d ever heard, complete with special effects to make her believe it, or the four were actually telling her the truth.

‘I need to be back in Holyhead by nine tomorrow, Harry,’ announced Ginny when the kitchen clock struck twelve times. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

‘Do you want to stay over?’ Harry asked.

Ron and Hermione nodded, ‘Yeah, thanks, Harry.’

He turned to Bobbie. ‘There are enough bedrooms, if...’

She shook her head. ‘I’m on early turn. I need to be at work in six hours. I’ll go home,’ she stood.

‘Take this,’ Harry offered, passing her a card containing his name, and a telephone number. ‘If you want to talk, phone the number. You won’t get me, but I will get your message.’

‘Thanks,’ Bobbie picked up the card.

‘I’ll see you out,’ Ginny told her. Harry stood to follow, but with a glance, Ginny made it clear that she wanted to speak to Bobbie alone. He sat down.

‘Harry has decided to trust you,’ Ginny advised as they walked along the hall. ‘Do _not_ betray that trust, it will hurt Harry, personally and professionally. I _will not_ allow him to be hurt.’

Unable to think of a reply, Bobbie nodded mutely.

‘You’re not stupid,’ Ginny continued. ‘You must realise that no-one would believe you if you told them. Everyone would think you were crazy. You can’t mention this house, either. That’s not friendly advice, it’s a fact. This place is magically protected. You’ll find that telling anyone will be impossible, and possibly painful, so don’t try. If you do talk about us, you’ll get Harry into a lot of trouble.’

‘He’s…’ Bobbie began.

‘Much too trusting sometimes,’ Ginny interrupted fiercely.

‘I was going to say that he’s serious about justice, about right and wrong,’ Bobbie told her. 

‘Riddle killed his parents, when he was only one year old,’ said Ginny simply, as if that explained everything. She watched Bobbie descend the steps. ‘Goodnight, Bobbie.’

The door closed, but the house remained. Bobbie wondered if she would always be able to see it.


	9. City of Westminster

**9\. City of Westminster**

Bobbie Beadle’s alarm buzzed. Her hand flailed out to hit the snooze button, and missed. Groaning, she forced her sleep-filled eyes open. In the pre-dawn darkness, she could see little more than the glowing green digits on her bedside clock. 

Although she desperately wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, she reluctantly pushed back her duvet and sat up. After little more than four hours sleep, she was tired and confused. She had dreamt of witches flying on broomsticks and of a sallow-faced blond man pointing a magic wand at her.

Rubbing the hard crusts of sleep from her eyes, Bobbie shook her head despairingly and made a desperate wish. ‘It was all a dream,’ she said. ‘It was all a dream!’

Sighing, she fumbled for her bedside light and switched it on. As she crept towards wakefulness, her memories of the previous night’s events remained worryingly real. Blinking in the sudden brightness she warily looked down at her bedside table. Propped up against her warrant card lay the business card she’d been given by Harry Potter. 

Bobbie picked it up and examined it carefully. In most ways it was like any other business card—a white rectangle the size of a credit card. To the right was the Home Office crest. To the left were the words: Harry Potter, Auror Office, Westminster, LONDON, Telephone: 28767 633423.

Disorientated, she gasped for breath. It was an Oz moment; the previous evening she’d been picked up by a tornado and dropped into a strange new world, but there were no ruby slippers to take her home. There was no room for doubt. The card confirmed that her impossible memories of the previous night were real. Her hand shook.

‘Damn,’ she said.

As she looked at the unusual arrangement of the numbers, something struck her. She picked up the telephone handset next to her bed and checked the numbers. She was right!

‘I don’t believe it,’ she told the empty room.

She was tempted to ring, just to see what would happen, to see if the Auror Office was manned twenty-four hours a day. The phone was in her hand, but she knew that, even if she’d really wanted to ring, she didn’t have time. Her clock showed 5:15, she needed to move quickly.

Forcing herself out of bed, Bobbie staggered through to her kitchen, put a fresh filter in her coffee machine, and filled it with almost double her usual amount of ground coffee. After setting the machine going, she had a very quick shower.

Cooling the strong coffee with copious quantities of cold milk, she gulped it down while getting dressed. Just before leaving, she carefully slid the card Harry had given her into her wallet, behind her warrant card.

It was still dark as she drove into Belgravia, and the streets were filled with the usual mixture of night owls and early birds. Street sweepers and refuse vehicles removed the waste from the city’s streets, while taxis took the last of the late night revellers home. As she drove, Bobbie almost managed to convince herself that it was going to be just another ordinary day at work.

Unfortunately, the moment she entered the station, her hopes for routine and normality were dashed. She’d only just got in through the door when she was warned.

‘You’ve got a complaint against you,’ her friend Tracey Twigg hissed as Bobbie hurried into the locker room. ‘Anonymous tip, it was phoned in last night at about eight.’

‘Thanks, Trace,’ said Bobbie as her fellow constable left.

Bobbie’s heart sank. She’d been due to meet Godley at seven the previous evening. She couldn’t be certain, but it seemed likely that the oily creep had waited an hour and then phoned in a complaint. A complaint, even an anonymous one, meant an interview with the duty Inspector. Her heart beating rapidly, Bobbie changed into her uniform and went to report to the duty sergeant. With the dry and ponderous cynicism of a man who had heard every excuse, he formally told her about the complaint, registered her lack of surprise, and ordered her to Inspector Dawson’s office, where she spent the next hour.

Dawson was a huge man, bigger even than Fatty Abberline. His belly spilled over his belt, his top lip was constantly sweating, and his double chins each supported double chins of their own. The interview was a disaster. Bobbie’s head was still reeling from the impossible events of the previous evening. That, coupled with only four hours sleep, meant that she’d been unable to do anything other than flatly deny the preposterous accusations that had been made.

The anonymous caller had claimed that she’d been having an affair with the American, McCoy. Apparently, instead of being on patrol, she’d been in bed with him when he died of a heart attack. That was dereliction of duty. She had then supposedly concocted the burglary story to cover herself, and to provide an excuse should her fingerprints or DNA be discovered inside the property.

Bobbie’s simple denials were not enough for Dawson. When the interview was over, he assigned her station duties for the day, and warned her that he would have to take matters further. To prove his point, he made her wait in his office as he made the telephone call to the Complaints Investigation Branch.

As she sat at her desk trying to concentrate on the routine case file she’d been assigned, Bobbie began to worry about the report and about the CIB investigation. What if it wasn’t Godley? What if it was Potter? Perhaps he and his spooks had set her up.

Her tired mind was a seething mass of uncertainty and paranoia until Detective Inspector Godley looked into the office. He didn’t say anything to her; he merely smirked knowingly and whispered something to his companion, a prune-faced elderly Detective Sergeant whose name Bobbie couldn’t remember. The sergeant gave a harsh laugh, and Bobbie’s doubts vanished. She was immediately certain that Godley, not Potter, was the instigator of the complaint.

No one in the office was talking to her. She recognised the signs. Everyone knew that she was under formal investigation and no doubt the rumour mill would be working overtime. The accusations against her were probably already common knowledge. Tracey Twigg walked into the room, a thick file in her hand. She caught Bobbie’s eye as she strolled slowly past on the way to her own desk.

‘Full enquiry, locker search,’ she whispered under her breath, confirming Bobbie’s suspicions. Tracey didn’t even slow down. Bobbie didn’t blame her. Until the complaint was resolved, everyone would be professional and very formal around her.

Her locker! The second envelope containing copies of the photographs, her back-up plan, were all still in her locker. Bobbie knew that there was no way she would be allowed to go near it. But she had to do something. Harry Potter was the key to the case. He knew more, much more, than Godley and his team. He was the only one still investigating the murder. Even if she’d trusted Godley, telling him what she knew—what had happened last night—would simply result in her being sent for a psychological evaluation. And that would stay on her record forever.

She had to trust someone, and her choice was Potter, or Dawson and Godley. Bobbie found the decision surprisingly easy. Everyone watched as she stood and left the office. Godley, who was standing in the corridor and looking smug, began to follow her. She went to the ladies’ toilet, locked herself in a cubicle, pulled out her mobile phone, and dialled the number Potter had given her. She didn’t even need to look at his card.

‘Auror Office,’ said the female voice that answered the phone. ‘How may we help?’

‘My name is Bobbie Beadle. I need to speak to Harry Potter. It’s urgent,’ Bobbie whispered.

There was a short pause. ‘I’m afraid that Mr Potter is unavailable,’ the voice said evenly.

The search could take place at any moment; Bobbie knew that she had no time to waste talking to a receptionist. She checked her watch. It was a few minutes after nine o’clock.

‘I know, he told me. He’s with the Minister for Magic; they’re probably talking about me,’ Bobbie told the woman. She was rewarded by a surprised intake of breath from the other end of the line. ‘Tell him that DI Godley has dropped me in it. I’m under investigation, threatened with a locker search. Tell him that if he wants to keep things quiet, he needs to get my locker emptied, now!’

‘I will pass your message to Mr Potter when he is available,’ said the woman evenly.

‘Not good enough. If you can’t tell Harry Potter, tell Ron Weasley and do it now!’ Bobbie demanded gruffly. She dropped into her “I’m a copper—do as you’re told” voice as she gave the order. It worked.

‘Yes, madam,’ the voice said worriedly. ‘Please wait.’

There was silence. It was a complete silence; there was no annoying music, no recorded apologies for being put on hold, not even the usual background crackles and hisses of a telephone line. Bobbie listened to the nothingness and wondered if she’d been cut off. She checked her watch and was debating whether she should hang up and redial when the woman returned.

‘Mr Weasley is not in the office today. Mr Potter is sending someone over immediately, goodbye,’ the voice said.

The phone was instantly disconnected.

Bobbie flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and returned to her desk. She sat down and once again picked up the crime report she’d been asked to deal with, but she couldn’t concentrate on it. Instead, she wondered where the Auror Office was located and how long it would take for them to get someone to the station. The answer, she discovered only a few minutes later, was not long at all.

The office door opened again, and duty Inspector Dawson walked in. Bobbie was worried. She was convinced that CIB had arrived, and that they were about to take her to her locker. When she saw the three young women following Dawson into the room, she breathed a sigh of relief. Two of them were very young, barely out of their teens. The other was several years older. Because of the photographs she’d discovered, Bobbie could name one of the three, and she recognised a second, the blonde.

The woman immediately behind Dawson was the eldest of the trio, and she was the unknown. She was tall, dark haired, and muscular. The sides of her head were shaved and her hair was swept up into spikes. She had several studs in each ear and a tattoo inside the left one. Bobbie estimated her to be in her mid to late twenties, although, because of the make-up, it was difficult to be certain. Her square and serious face was almost chalk white, her lips crimson, and her eyes lined in black. The woman stared dismissively around the room.

The second was a slender and willowy blonde with a dimple on her chin. Her shoulder length hair was parted on the left; it swept over her right eye, partly covering it and was tied back in a tight and severe looking bun. The blonde’s eyes were a piercing pale blue and she wore little or no makeup. She was actually a couple of inches shorter than the first woman, but the height difference evened out by the fact that she wore black stilettos, whereas the goth wore Dr Marten boots. The blonde looked serious, severe, and aloof.

The third girl had curly brown hair several inches longer than that of her companions’, and her eyes were an unusual violet colour. She was curvier than her colleagues and she dressed to her strengths. Instantly recognisable from the photographs in Bobbie’s locker, she was the shortest by a couple of inches. But she wore opera shoes, making her appear tiny alongside her colleagues. She grinned mischievously, her eyes darting around the room, stopping momentarily on two of the best looking males.

All three women carried black coats. All wore white short-sleeved blouses, grey cravats, and black skirts. The coats they carried were identical to those worn by Potter and Weasley at the crime scene. The photographer, Gray, had worn a similar coat plus the blouse and cravat. Bobbie was in no doubt that the trio were from the Auror Office.

The goth’s right arm was tattooed from wrist to, presumably, shoulder. It was impossible to be certain because the colourful dragon tattoo disappeared under her sleeve. Her skirt was long, calf length, revealing only a few inches of fishnet between boot and hem. The blonde’s skirt was a couple of inches above her knee. Brown’s skirt was several inches shorter than the blonde’s, short enough to be very interesting to the males in the room. Her blouse had the top three buttons unfastened, too.

The office had fallen silent the moment the girls walked in. It was that special, lust-filled, appraising silence reserved for those special occasions when even moderately attractive young women enter an office filled almost entirely by middle-aged men. The silence lasted only seconds before it was replaced by a susurrus of low talk, which rippled and echoed around the room as the three young newcomers were compared, assessed, and remarks—both approving and disparaging—were made.

‘Constable Beadle,’ Inspector Dawson began. ‘These are…’

‘Polly Protheroe,’ the Goth introduced herself, holding out a hand and smiling. ‘These are my colleagues, Susan Bones and …’

‘Lavender Brown,’ Bobbie finished. The three girls looked at her in surprise.

‘Bloody hell!’ Protheroe said. ‘Harry told us you were good. It looks like he was right.’ She turned to address Dawson, who looked nervous. ‘Inspector, we’ll need to escort Constable Beadle to her locker.’

‘You?’ Detective Inspector Godley had followed the three young women into the room. ‘You can’t allow that, Dawson. This is a disciplinary matter.’ He glared at Bobbie.

‘Us,’ Lavender Brown smiled sweetly at him. ‘You must be Inspector Godley.’

‘Heard of me, have you, darlin’?’ Godley grinned lecherously.

‘Oh yes,’ Lavender’s smile turned suddenly wolfish. ‘I’d get back to your office, if I were you; big Terry is looking for you.’

‘I had the Commissioner’s office on the phone when this lot arrived, George.’ Inspector Dawson spoke slowly and softly. The nervous sweat glistening on his forehead was a pearl tiara under the fluorescent lights. ‘There were four of them. The other one wanted to know where your office was. He...’

As if on cue, a large hand appeared on Godley’s shoulder.

‘Terry Boot.’ The voice of the owner of the hand was a deep rumble. ‘I need to speak to you, Inspector.’ The big man spoke slowly and very carefully. Bobbie saw a flicker of amusement on Lavender’s face as she watched Terry. It was as if Lavender was enjoying a performance. Bobbie was immediately uncertain whether any, or all of those aspects of his speech, were truly characteristic of the man. He certainly appeared to be ponderous and slow.

Terry was a couple of inches over six feet in height and so broad at the shoulder that he almost filled the doorway. He was jug-eared and flat featured. Despite his relative youth, his hair was receding, giving him a pronounced widow’s peak. The burly young man wore the same uniform that Bobbie had seen on Harry and Ron.

Godley turned to see who had grabbed his shoulder, made a feeble squeak of surprise when he saw the big man, and slumped a little. Bobbie failed to suppress a smile.

‘There won’t be any trouble, will there?’ Protheroe asked Godley. ‘Terry doesn’t like trouble, do you, Terry?’

Terry shrugged. ‘Don’t mind,’ he grumbled. He paused in thought. ‘Don’t like the paperwork that usually follows.’ he added.

‘Susan, Lavender, take Constable Beadle to her locker and clear it, then take her to the Ministry,’ Protheroe ordered. ‘Terry and I will speak to Inspector Godley.’

* * *

Susan Bones opened the envelope, pulled out the photographs, and gasped. Lavender peered excitedly over her shoulder.

‘The Muggles have got photographs and names,’ Susan said, her face pinched in disapproval. ‘Every member of the DA is on these photographs somewhere! And a Muggle police woman found them!’

‘Hey, I’m standing right here, you know!’ Bobbie protested. ‘And it’s police constable, not police woman.’

‘I hated that bloody wheelchair,’ said Lavender, staring at one of the images. ‘Once the Healers were sure I’d make a full recovery, I used a Blasting spell on the bloody thing, reduced it to dust! Hey look, there’s Hannah, and she’s so obviously mooning over Nev! And that’s… Hey, don’t snatch!’

Susan pointedly pushed the photographs back into the envelope. ‘We’re _working_ , remember,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a job to do! We’re on a tight schedule; we need to take her to the Ministry.’

‘Her! She’s called Bobbie! Don’t be so rude and grumpy, Susan,’ said Lavender, squaring up to her companion.

‘Do I have time to change?’ Bobbie asked in an attempt to stop an argument. Lavender glared and pouted, but said nothing. It seemed that she’d decided to sulk.

‘No,’ said Susan. ‘Empty your locker, Bobbie. Take everything.’

‘Even my stab vest and equipment?’ Bobbie asked.

‘Harry said, “clear the locker,” so that means everything,’ said Susan firmly.

Bobbie pulled on the vest, and then put on her duty belt. If the two watching women were prepared to let her wear her equipment, she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. The weight of the baton on her hip was certainly a comfort to her. Picking up her reinforced bowler, she carefully placed it on her head.

‘I’m ready. Where’s your car?’ Bobbie asked.

‘Car?’ asked Susan.

‘We Apparated here,’ said Lavender. ‘Apparating is…’

‘I know what it is,’ Bobbie interrupted. ‘Harry told me. He thinks that the noise I heard at the crime scene was someone Apparating away.’

‘He told you? It’s no wonder he’s in trouble,’ Lavender observed. She turned to her blonde companion. ‘Do you think that we could take her by Side-along, Susan?’

‘I don’t know,’ the blonde said. ‘I don’t know whether a Muggle would survive Apparition.’

‘My car is in the station car park,’ Bobbie suggested hastily. ‘I can drive there.’

‘A trip in a Muggle car!’ Lavender clapped her hands in excitement. ‘Let’s do it, Susan. It will take Polly and Terry a while to clear up here.’

‘I suppose that it will be safest for her… for you, Bobbie,’ said Susan. ‘Have we got everything? You don’t have any more photographs hidden anywhere?’

‘There’s an identical envelope in my car,’ said Bobbie as she hastily pushed her civilian clothes into a plastic bag. ‘But none of them are the originals. The newspaper office I visited has all of these photographs, and a lot more.’

Both women were constantly on alert as Bobbie guided them through the station. Susan stayed alongside her, and Lavender brought up the rear. Susan’s head turned to every open door, and her left hand remained inside her coat pocket at all times. As they approached the exit, the sergeant looked up from his computer and stared.

Bobbie slowed. ‘I’m logged in and on duty,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll have to tell the sergeant where I’m going, and who you are. What do I say?’

‘Tell him we’re…’ Susan’s forehead furrowed; she stopped and pulled out a black leather wallet. Lavender moved alongside Bobbie, grabbed her arm, and continued towards the desk, and the still staring Duty Sergeant.

‘I’m Lavender Brown, and that’s Susan Bones,’ said Lavender, jerking a thumb over her shoulder as she marched towards the desk. She didn’t break her stride. ‘We’re with the Auror Office; it’s a Special Intelligence Division of the Home Office. Constable Beadle has important information for us. We’re taking her back to Headquarters. If you need to check with your superiors, Inspector… that fat man…’ Lavender glanced at Bobbie.

‘Inspector Dawson,’ Bobbie provided.

‘Inspector Dawson has all the details, ask him,’ Lavender continued seamlessly. She slowed and looked dismissively over her shoulder. ‘Come along, Bones, show him your identity card and get a move on! We’re on a tight schedule, remember!’

As they walked out through the steel door and into the car park, Susan’s face was pinched in annoyance.

‘Confidence, Susan,’ said Lavender smugly. ‘Make up a story, _remember it_ , and stick to it. Ron and George made these cards for Harry, and us. I know we don’t even know what the Home Office is, Susan, but you should _know_ who you work for! You shouldn’t have to dig out a card to remind yourself.’

‘Deception obviously comes naturally to you,’ said Susan waspishly.

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Bobbie. ‘What is it with you two? You’re supposed to be professionals!’

‘True,’ Susan admitted as she walked through the car park. ‘I told Robards I couldn’t work with her, but he put us together anyway.’

‘He’s a miserable old sod who likes to make other people miserable,’ Lavender observed. ‘You should have begged him to allow you to work with me. That would’ve kept us apart. But I thought we were friends, Susan. I’m only trying to help, you know.’

‘I can be friends with someone and not want to work with them, Lavender.’ Susan sighed. ‘But you’re right. You did a good job of pretending, better than me. You know that I rarely visit the Muggle world. I was uncertain, nervous. It won’t happen again.’ As she spoke, there was a steely determination in the blonde’s ice-blue eyes.

Bobbie thumbed the remote and unlocked her car. As she climbed into the driver’s seat, she was astonished to discover that the blonde Auror was struggling to open the passenger door. She leaned over to open it, and then had to explain how to lift the seat. After a brief discussion, Lavender reluctantly clambered into the back of the car and Susan settled herself alongside Bobbie. Then Bobbie discovered that neither of them could fasten a seatbelt, either.

‘It’s the law!’ said Bobbie, silencing Lavender’s protests. ‘And I’m a police officer! We aren’t moving until you two have fastened those belts. I didn’t have this trouble with Harry and Ginny!’ She leaned into the back of her Ka and fastened Lavender’s seatbelt for her. ‘At last! Now, where are we going?’

‘The Ministry of Magic. There’s an entrance just off Strand,’ said Susan. ‘I’m not sure how far it is from here.’

‘It’s only a ten minute drive,’ said Bobbie as she pulled out into the traffic. ‘I know the area. I went to Charing Cross nick straight from Hendon. It was my first posting.’ She paused. ‘But the Ministry of Magic wasn’t on the list of government buildings. I wonder why!’

Lavender laughed. ‘I like you!’ she announced. Bobbie glanced into her mirror at the girl on the back seat and realised that, if the opposite were true, Lavender would certainly have told her so.

Bobbie drove past Victoria Station, and then on to The Mall. As she drove, she kept glancing at her passengers. Susan was extremely tense. She sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, and she reached into her pocket every time an oncoming car strayed close to the white line running down the middle of the road. Lavender, on the other hand, was looking around the inside of the car, examining everything.

‘It’s not very big, is it?’ Lavender said.

‘It’s big enough for me, and I’m usually the only person in it,’ Bobbie said as they passed through Trafalgar Square. ‘Your office is very central, isn’t it? The Palace of Westminster, Parliament, is just down there.’ She lifted a hand from the wheel and pointed.

‘Don’t you need both hands to control this thing?’ Susan asked worriedly.

‘And both feet,’ said Lavender. ‘There are pedals, Susan, I can see them!’

Susan, who’d been looking anxiously out at the traffic, glanced down into the footwell, saw the pedals, and went rigid.

‘It’s there!’ said Lavender suddenly. ‘Turn right now. No! You’ve missed it!’ she squealed as Bobbie drove straight past.

‘I need more warning than that before I can make a right turn,’ she said over Lavender’s protests. ‘And anyway, those were No Entry signs; it’s a one way street.’ She took the next right, and then turned right again. ‘There’s a parking space here. Is this close enough?’

‘Yes,’ said Susan through clenched teeth. ‘Where is the second set of photographs?’ she added as Bobbie parked.

* * *

Bobbie wondered whether it was safe to open her eyes. She’d had to close them, as Susan and Lavender appeared to be leading her towards a solid wall. They’d told her it was safe, and that closing her eyes was the easiest way through. She wasn’t so sure, but the expected impact hadn’t come.

‘You can look now. We’re inside,’ Susan said.

Bobbie found herself standing inside a doorway, looking into an airy vault-roofed atrium. They had entered on the short side. The room was at least one hundred feet wide and probably more than twice as long. It was impossible to accurately estimate the length, because the room was bisected by a line of wooden arches. In a strange way they reminded Bobbie of the walkthrough metal detectors at airports, although they were more baroque than utilitarian.

The walls to both left and right were lined with dozens of enormous marble fireplaces, and in each one a fire blazed. Midway between Bobbie and the arches was a slab of white marble some twelve feet tall and more than five feet wide.

‘Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,’ Lavender said.

As they set off towards the arches, Bobbie saw one of the fires flare green. A spinning figure appeared in the flames and stepped out. The man, and Bobbie had to look twice to make certain that it was a man, was wearing colourful ankle-length robes. 

‘Is that Apparition?’ asked Bobbie wonderingly.

‘No,’ said Susan. ‘They’re the Floo connections.’ 

When they passed the white marble slab, Bobbie saw that the word “Remember” was carved at the top. Below were dozens of names. Susan led Bobbie towards one of the “Visitors” arches on the left side of the Atrium.

‘Walk into the arch, and speak your full name, and add “Auror Office visitor”,’ said Susan.

‘My _full_ name?’ asked Bobbie.

‘Yes,’ Susan confirmed. ‘Go on.’

Bobbie hesitated, something inside her whispered that this was it. At this point, she could—and probably should—run back through the Atrium and out into the real world outside; the world where men in robes did not step out of fireplaces. Once she was through the arch and into the Ministry proper, she knew that option would vanish.

While Bobbie wavered, Lavender walked through an adjacent arch, saying, ‘Lavender Brown, trainee Auror,’ as she did so. Seconds later, Lavender appeared on the opposite side of the arch, facing Bobbie. ‘It’s okay,’ said Lavender, beckoning her through.

Noticing the anxious look on Lavender’s face, Bobbie again considered running. Then she remembered the victim, Daniel McCoy. She wasn’t going to let down her first murder victim, she decided. Steeling herself, she stepped warily into the arch, ‘Roberta Artemis Beadle, Auror Office visitor,’ she said.

Lavender beckoned her forwards, and Bobbie stepped through into the other half of the atrium. Nothing happened. Susan followed immediately behind. Disappointed by the anti-climax of her entry into the Ministry of Magic, which hadn’t been anywhere near as eventful as her entry into Grimmauld Place, Bobbie looked around. There was a long reception desk where several bizarrely dressed young men and women were dealing with various visitors.

‘We weren’t sure that would work,’ Lavender admitted. ‘I think you’re the first Muggle through the security arches.’

‘Excuse me, Miss Beadle! Excuse me!’ One of the young men behind the desk was frantically waving something at Bobbie. ‘The Minister is expecting you. You’re to go to his office immediately! Here’s your Visitor’s Pass. Please wear it at all times.’

Bobbie walked over and took it from him. It contained a photograph of her, which seemed to have been taken when she’d waited in the arch, and read: “Visitor – DMLE(AO): Roberta A Beadle”. Bobbie examined it carefully and wondered how she was supposed to wear it. It was simply a thick rectangle of parchment.

Susan and Lavender were whispering worriedly about “the Minister”. They had opened identical wallets, and were pressing identity badges onto their blouses. Their badges, like Bobbie’s, seemed to be thick parchment; but they stayed in place.

Noting her confusion, Susan took Bobbie’s pass and pressed it onto her stab vest, under the police crest. It was then that Bobbie realised she’d passed through security, but still had her baton, pepper spray, and handcuffs; and she still wore her vest. In recognition of the fact that she was indoors, she removed her hat.

‘Temporary Sticking Charm,’ Susan said. ‘Don’t take it off, it’s a visitor badge, so it will self-ignite.’

Bobbie had spent years walking the London streets in a uniform which was the only thing most people registered. She was used to being watched, but the blatant gawping of the magical community surprised her.

‘You’d think they’d never seen a copper before,’ Bobbie observed as they made their way towards the bank of lifts at the far end of the Atrium.

‘Most of them haven’t,’ Lavender confided.

After a hair-raising journey in a lift that travelled sideways as well as up and down, Bobbie found herself being escorted along a corridor and through a set of imposing black double doors. The brass plate next to the doors read “Kingsley Shacklebolt: Minister for Magic”, but when Bobbie entered she found herself in a thick-carpeted, wood-panelled anteroom. A round-faced bespectacled woman looked up from her desk, which was next to a second set of imposing doors.

‘The Minister is expecting you, Constable Beadle, go straight through,’ the woman said, tapping her desk with a wand. The doors opened. ‘Not you two! You’re to return to the Auror Office,’ the woman said firmly when Susan and Lavender attempted to follow. ‘But the Minister does want to see the evidence.’

‘There are two copies, Brenda. I’ll keep one,’ said Susan, handing the other over to Bobbie. The woman nodded.

‘Good luck,’ Lavender murmured.

As Bobbie entered the room, the doors swung closed behind her. There was a large desk against the left-hand wall. Behind the empty chair was an ornate crest. The only person in the room was at the opposite end. As he turned from the windows which, to Bobbie’s surprise, looked out across The Mall towards St James’ Park, she recognised him. He was tall, bald, and black, and he wore a smart grey suit.

‘Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic,’ the man said, walking towards her and stretching out a hand. As Bobbie shook it, she remembered the voice she’d heard emanating from the silver lynx.

‘Constable Roberta Beadle, Metropolitan Police, sir,’ she said. He led her towards a comfortable-looking green leather sofa under the window, and indicated that she should sit. Bobbie stared out of the window. ‘I thought we were on the Strand,’ she said.

‘We are, in a way,’ the Minister said. ‘Things like “where” aren’t quite as fixed as you believe they are, Constable. This window is, in fact, on an upper floor of The Royal Society; I’m simply borrowing the view, because I like it. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Milk, no sugar, thanks,’ Bobbie told him. ‘You were at Colin Creevey’s funeral, weren’t you?’

‘I was,’ he confirmed, his eyes boring into hers. ‘Is my name in that file of yours?’

‘Not your name,’ Bobbie told him. ‘But your photograph is.’

His short laugh was a deep, rumbling bass note. ‘We constantly underestimate Muggles,’ he said. After pouring the tea into a fine bone china cup, the Minister handed her the cup and saucer, pulled out an ornate gold pocket watch, and sat in a comfortable armchair opposite her.

‘It’s almost ten o’clock,’ he announced. ‘The Wizengamot have summoned me to an emergency meeting at eleven. I have an hour to make a decision.’

‘A decision about what?’ asked Bobbie.

‘About you, and Mr Potter,’ the Minister said. ‘Harry has—not for the first time—ignored Wizarding law in his pursuit of the truth. This time, however, he has chosen to ignore the International Statute of Secrecy. Instead of following procedure, he has told you our secrets, revealed our world to you.’

‘What should he have done?’ Bobbie asked.

‘Discovered everything you know about the case, and then summoned an Obliviator to modify your memories so you forgot everything about him, and your investigation.’

Bobbie was instantly on her feet. ‘That’s… It’s… It’s inhumane,’ she said. ‘What about the victim? A man is dead! Does no one but Harry care about the murder of Daniel McCoy.’

‘Not everyone cares. but I do,’ said the Minister quietly. ‘And Harry believes you can help find this man’s killer. He wants me to offer you a job as some sort of Muggle Liaison, but I’ll need to persuade the Wizengamot that you’d be useful. And before that…’ He waited expectantly.

‘I’ll have to persuade you that I would be useful,’ Bobbie said. She handed him the envelope containing her research. ‘But Harry and you are presuming a lot. What makes you think I’d want to work for you?’

‘Your personnel file,’ the Minister indicated a large folder on his desk. ‘We’ve been busy. You’re single and have no close family. You are not currently in a relationship, you finished top of your class at Hendon, and since qualifying you have taken, and passed, several courses. You are a fully qualified pursuit driver, a Judo black belt, and much more. You are obviously ambitious, because you have recently applied for firearms training, for a transfer into the detective branch, and to take your sergeant’s exam. Despite what he’s told you, all three applications are still in Inspector Dawson’s pending tray. He believes you’re too keen. Harry, however, believes you’d be an asset to the Auror Office. If you want a job, you’ll have to prove him right. Can you?’

‘How?’ Bobbie asked.

The Minister pulled out the contents of the envelope, and began rifling through them. Bobbie watched in silence.

‘This is an excellent start, Ms Beadle,’ he told her. ‘This shows that you have investigative skills. We’re looking for five extremely dangerous individuals. Harry believes that one of them may have killed Mr McCoy and that they may be hiding in the Muggle world … in _your_ world. He has an instinct for these things, so he’s likely correct. However, we’ve been looking for them for three years, and despite a huge effort, they are still at large.’

‘Do you have photographs, fingerprints, DNA?’ Bobbie asked. ‘If you do, then you can pass the information to NCS, or NCIS, and ask them to add their names to the police database. The photographs would be distributed, and you’d find out if the fingerprints or DNA had been discovered at any crime scene. Of course, not every copper across the country will look at the photographs, but some will, and you might get lucky.’

‘I have no idea what the letters DNA mean, or what NCS or NCIS stand for,’ the Minister admitted.

‘NCS is the National Crime Squad, NCIS is the National Criminal Intelligence Service, and DNA is, um… It’s…’ Bobbie hesitated. ‘I’ve no idea what it stands for,’ she admitted. ‘Do you know what fingerprints are?’

‘Yes. We’ve recently started to collect them from criminals and we have fingerprints from some of the people we want, although perhaps not all of them. Harry was raised in your world. He wants to modernise, to change.’

 _Only just!_ Bobbie was astonished by the admission. ‘I’ll bet he does,’ Bobbie said. ‘The papers call DNA a genetic fingerprint. It’s close enough. If you have a bit of skin, or blood, or saliva, or… other bodily fluids, you can extract DNA and identify who they’ve come from.’

‘Really?’ asked Kingsley, looking up from the photographs from Colin Creevey’s funeral. ‘That’s quite astonishing. How do they do it?’

‘No idea. It’s science,’ Bobbie told him. ‘But, honestly, Mr Shacklebolt… Minister… without looking at your case files, I’ve no idea whether I can help you.’

‘This is very impressive work.’ The Minister waved the photographs and note she’d collected.

‘Harry’s bike, Hermione’s car, the photograph SOCO found at the crime scene; they’re all things which I used to track Harry down. Let me see your case files, and I’ll see if I can make any suggestions.’

‘I’ll take you to the Auror Office myself,’ the Minister said. ‘And I’ll suggest that the Wizengamot give you one month to prove yourself as a Muggle Liaison Officer. If you agree, then you’re working for the Ministry and you’re bound by the Statute of Secrecy. And if that’s the case, then no laws have been broken. Do you agree?’

Bobbie didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes.’

* * *

There were eight of them in the room, most were no older than she was, and only two of the newcomers didn’t feature on the photographs she’d found. Harry, Polly, Susan, Lavender, and Terry had been joined by the burly blond Neville Longbottom. The other two were a bearded man named Dominic, who had trained with Polly; and a mournful-looking man in his sixties who the youngsters called Webb.

It had been a steep learning curve on both sides, and Bobbie was exhausted. Susan and Neville in particular appeared to know very little about Bobbie’s world. Almost everything she’d suggested they had already tried themselves. She’d been looking to prove herself on her first day, but it wasn’t happening.

‘I really don’t know what else to suggest,’ said Bobbie in frustration. ‘I’m sure you’ve checked their bank accounts, but they’ll be dormant. They’ll probably have opened accounts under false names, and guessing those won’t be easy.’

Everyone looked at Terry and Webb.

‘We only started looking at bank accounts last year. Before that, no one senior thought it was a good idea,’ the older man said. ‘But all accounts have to be in the real name of the holder, the goblins say it’s impossible to use a false name.’

Bobbie smiled. ‘We call them gnomes,’ she said. ‘But how can they avoid people forging documents and using a fake identity.’

‘The gnomes of Zurich,’ said Polly knowledgeably. ‘But that’s just a name, Bobbie, a joke. We call them goblins because that’s what they are. Three feet tall, long noses, and they love gold almost as much as dragons do. Gnomes are different, they’re vicious little buggers who live in gardens.’

‘Seriously?’ Bobbie asked.

Everyone nodded. ‘Yes,’ various voices chorused.

‘Would now be a good time to mention that I’m a werewolf?’ Lavender asked.

‘Fine, whatever,’ Bobbie said finding herself drowning in the insanity of her position. ‘You all realise how easy it will be to lie to me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I won’t,’ Webb said firmly. ‘My daughter’s like you. She works in a Muggle bank. Perhaps you should talk to her about all of this. This must be hard for you.’ He paused.

‘No magic?’ Bobbie asked.

‘She takes after her late mother,’ Webb said.

‘Thanks, I’d like to meet her,’ said Bobbie gratefully.

‘I’ll ask her.’ He looked at the younger Aurors. ‘Goblin magic isn’t the same as ours,’ he continued. ‘They say that only the true name can be recorded for a vault, and I’ve never seen, or heard, of anyone having a vault under a name that wasn’t their own.’

‘Neither have I,’ Terry confirmed.

‘After my seventeenth birthday, I opened my own account, separate from Gran’s,’ Neville said. ‘It took hours.’ Four goblins working to make certain that I was who I said I was.’ Susan and Terry nodded in agreement.

‘Now I’m working, I should probably do the same,’ said Lavender. ‘But four hours at Gringotts sounds like torture. Perhaps I’ll just keep my money in Mum and Dad’s vault.’

‘So, you’ve checked the accounts of all five,’ Bobbie said sadly.

Webb and Terry nodded. ‘Nothing,’ they said. ‘No activity. We’ve no idea what they’re living on, but they must be getting their Galleons from somewhere.’

Galleons were gold coins, Bobbie remembered. She looked down at the five files spread out in front of her. The photographs of Marcus Flint, Miles Bletchley, Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, and Daphne Greengrass glowered back.

‘Could they legally change their names?’ Bobbie asked.

‘Yes, but they haven’t,’ Webb said. ‘They need to go through the Ministry, so we’d know.’

’Even if they got married?’ Bobbie asked. She looked at Webb. ‘I mean... I don’t know if she did, but when you married, your wife could simply take your name, couldn’t she? No paperwork required, other than the marriage certificate of course.’

Webb’s jaw dropped. Terry looked confused.

‘Surely it can’t be that easy?’ said Harry, barely able to hide his excitement.

‘We’ll go to Gringotts now,’ Webb said. ‘Come on, Terry.’

‘Try the names Millicent Flint and Daphne Bletchley first,’ said Lavender.


	10. In Diagon Alley

**10\. In Diagon Alley**

It was that uncertain time of night, the time when it could have been either very late at night or very early in the morning. As the magical streetlamps in Diagon Alley flickered fitfully as they cast their blue glow across the street, the street was almost deserted—almost.

Four black-cloaked wizards strode soundlessly through the gloom. Despite the fact that there was no one around to see them, they walked in single file and kept in the shadows close to the shop fronts. The lead figure was dark-haired, bespectacled, and of average height; the two behind him were noticeably taller; and the burly one-eared redhead bringing up the rear was the shortest. In little more than an hour the sun would reveal itself for another day and the street would begin to wake, but for the moment the quartet had the place to themselves.

‘The Muffliato charm on the boots works well,’ the tall and gangling red-haired man who was second in line said quietly.

‘Another great product from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,’ the one-eared red-head bringing up the rear murmured. ‘I reckon that another Auror contract is imminent.’

As the quartet reached Gringotts and climbed the stairs to the front door of the bank, a large lamp above the doors flickered into life. The four men blinked in the sudden brightness.

‘Lights, Ron,’ ordered the man in the lead.

‘Oh yeah. Sorry, Harry,’ Ron replied. He pulled what looked like a silver cigarette lighter from his pocket and clicked it five times. The light from the lamp above their heads, together with that from the four nearest streetlamps, shot through the air and into the Deluminator. They were once again plunged into darkness, and Ron yawned.

‘Are you okay, mate?’ asked Harry. His friend yawned again.

‘I’m fed up with early mornings,’ Ron admitted. ‘And Hermione was at work until ten last night. I never see her. Why did we have to be here so early? It’s not even the crack of dawn yet. And why is it that Nev’s missing yet another early morning! How is it he’s the one who gets to stay in bed?’

‘This isn’t an early morning, lazybones, it’s a late night. I haven’t been to bed yet,’ said George. ‘No stamina, that’s your problem, Ron. You can’t keep up with Hermione, can you?’

‘Nev’s not in bed, Ron. He’s in Cardiff, checking up on the surveillance outside Beaker and Rodd. And you know we can’t do this during the day,’ said Harry, ignoring Ron’s brother. ‘Everyone would see us. And the Goblins wouldn’t approve.’

‘It’s none of their business! We’re not Mapping Gringotts,’ said Ron grumpily. ‘We’re Mapping the area outside their front door. It’s a section of street, of Diagon Alley; it’s not part of the bank.’

‘That won’t matter to the goblins,’ Harry said. ‘We need to be be able to see the names of everyone who enters.’ He pulled the parchment from his pocket and placed it on the ground in front of the door. ‘Everyone ready?’

‘Yes,’ said George.

‘Yeah,’ Ron agreed.

Terry Boot nodded.

Four wands were placed on the centre of the parchment, tips touching; four voices whispered the enchantment; and four wands were dragged slowly across the parchment, one to each corner. As they moved, a blue-white light connected the four wands and created a glowing rectangle on the blank page.

Once the corners of the parchment were reached, the quartet lifted their still magically connected wands into the air and began to walk to their agreed locations. Harry and Terry walked over to the properties opposite the bank, and then moved away from each other. Ron and George kept to the wall they’d been following, Ron returning the way they’d come, George moving further up Diagon Alley. Soon an area forty yards either side of Gringotts and covering the entire width of the street was enclosed inside the faintly glowing blue-white lines connecting the wands.

The quartet looked at each other, checking that everyone else was in position. Moving as one, the four wands were placed on the ground. Four voices whispered the closing enchantment. The blue-white light left the wand-tips and slithered across the cobbles and up the steps in an ever-shrinking rectangle. It reached the parchment, which flared briefly.

‘That was brighter than I expected,’ said Ron. ‘It was hardly worth me putting out the lights.’ He clicked the Deluminator, and the lights flew back to their original positions.

‘Quiet,’ George hissed.

In the still silence of the pre-dawn, everyone could hear the rapid clatter of boots on cobbles.

Harry flicked his wand, and the parchment fluttered through the air into his outstretched hand. His companions hurried towards him and huddled around the parchment.

‘It’s working,’ said Harry. All four names were huddled together on the parchment.

‘Who goes there?’ A voice asked.

A new name “Albert Thynne” appeared on the far edge of the map.

‘Harry Potter, Auror Office,’ Harry called. ‘It’s been a while, Bailiff Thynne, how are you?’

* * *

Harry stared across the large desk. The sallow, thin-faced man in the large chair stared back; his bored and supercilious expression made it obvious to Harry that he’d asked the wrong question.

‘Bless you, Mr Potter, we don’t actually _create_ every Portkey, we simply authorise them.’ the man said haughtily. ‘We licence the operators, regularly examine their credentials, and prosecute those who create an unauthorised Portkey.’

‘Then please explain, Mr Hewitson,’ said Harry.

To curb his annoyance and frustration with the man, he closed his eyes for a moment and remembered Ginny’s last Quidditch match.

‘Explain what, exactly?’ Hewitson spoke with an over-exaggerated politeness.

Harry smiled at the memory of Ginny’s final goal, and opened his eyes. ‘Assume that I know nothing about how the Portkey Office operates. Let’s say, for example, that I want to move a large amount of furniture from one property to another.’

‘You could try to avoid using an authorised Portkey. Many people do. You could move it yourself via the Floo Network, provided that the items will fit through the fireplaces at both the origin and destination. Of course if it doesn’t, or if you drop the item, it could block the system. But that would be the Floo Network Authority’s problem, not mine. I believe it’s one of their biggest. Alternatively you could use Apparition, if you can physically carry the items. Both methods have their drawbacks. Alternatively, you tie the furniture together, create a Portkey, and contact my staff for authorisation. You, and everything you’re holding on to, will be transported to the destination.’

The expression on the face of the Head of the Portkey Office became assessing, and slightly venal. He took off his glasses and began to polish them. ‘If you really _are_ looking to move, then I could give you a short list of authorised contractors,’ Hewitson said eagerly. ‘If you’re looking for a reliable, efficient, and discreet Porter, then…’

‘I’m simply trying to find out how the system works,’ said Harry. ‘I want to find out what your office does.’

‘We make certain that goods and people can be moved efficiently, with no clashes of destination and timing, and we licence Porters—Portkey Operators—and check the safety of their work.’ Hewitson said. ‘It’s all “supply and demand,” Mr Potter.’ He waved a hand as if those three words explained everything, then grabbed his lapels in his hands, leant back in his chair, and began to expound. ‘In business, distribution is the key. Take, for example, the Nimbus Broom Company. They source raw twigs and broom wood from various locations, their suppliers Porter them in bulk to the broom manufactory. Once the brooms are made, the company then Porters the finished product to the shops. A lot of witches and wizards make a good living by moving other people’s goods around. There’s a skill to it. I’m sure that you know that! If you’re inexperienced, travelling by Portkey can be a little bumpy. Imagine what it’s like when you have the Portkey in one hand and a large crate containing four dozen brooms in the other. The top Portering companies guarantee a perfect delivery. The larger the load a licensed Porter can land safely, the more he can earn. A good Porter can make a very good living.’

‘So, most companies use Portkeys. Would you expect a company which imports and sells potion ingredients to deliver those items by Portkey?’

‘Aha!’ the man said waving a finger in the air. ‘I knew this wasn’t simple curiosity, Mr Potter! You’re working on a case. What do you want to know? Most of the larger companies have Portering contracts, and usually they rely on one Portage company to deliver their wares. Which company are you interested in? I can guarantee they’ll be in our files somewhere.’

‘I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time, Mr Hewitson,’ said Harry politely. ‘And I don’t want everyone to know what we’re up to. All I need is a quick look through the relevant files. I know the name of the company supplying the goods, and where they are being delivered.’

‘Discretion,’ Hewitson tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘I understood! Follow me.’ He escorted Harry to the door of his office, and ushered him out into a room filled with busy-looking clerks. ‘Anthea,’ he bellowed. ‘Take Mr Potter to the file room. And be quick about it. It’s important Auror Office business.’

Harry sighed.

* * *

When Harry re-entered the Auror Office, Lavender was standing at Terry’s desk. He could tell by the way she was thrusting her chest towards him, and by the wheedling pitch of her voice, that her demands were not being met. Terry was unmoved by both her cleavage and her entreaties; he shook his head in impassive, and silent, refusal. Susan, Bobbie, and Dominic Strang were keeping their heads buried in paperwork and attempting to ignore the escalating altercation.

Ron, however, seemed unable to ignore Lavender. Seeing Harry, he strode across the room, his face like thunder. ‘I told you!’ he hissed. ‘She’s an absolute bloody nightmare. The moment we find the last of the fugitives, I’m handing in my notice. I don’t know why I helped you get her in here!’

‘She saved my life, Ron,’ said Harry quietly, trying to ignore the petulant whining coming from the other end of the room. ‘She almost got killed trying to capture Lestrange, and she really wanted the job.’

‘Mr Robards said no!’ Terry said firmly, as Lavender finally forced him to speak.

‘Ha-wweee,’ Lavender’s voice went up another octave as she turned her attention on him. Not for the first time, Harry gave Ron a look of sympathy. As she scampered across the room towards them, Ron turned away and Harry once again wondered whether Ron was right. Had helping her into the Auror Office been a good idea?

‘I’m busy,’ he said sharply as she batted her eyelashes at him. ‘What do you want?’

‘Ooh,’ Lavender began, oozing sympathy. ‘What’s the matter, Haw…’

Seeing his face, she lost both the pout and the little-girl act. She started again, using a much more matter-of-fact voice. ‘You’re busy, sorry. I’ll keep it short. Could you ask Terry to add Astoria Greengrass to the list of names that will trigger the Gringotts alarm, please?’

‘Robards agreed that we’d put alarms on the names of the five fugitives, and no one else,’ said Ron sharply, turning back to face his ex-girlfriend. ‘How many names do you want? If we put more names on the list, the alarm will be going off all the time! Astoria isn’t wanted for anything.’

‘Harry wants me to talk to her, Ron,’ said Lavender apologetically. She lowered her voice further and dropped her head, as contrite as a scolded puppy. ‘It’s difficult for me to bump into her by accident, but if I knew when she was in Diagon Alley…’

‘Is that the only name you want adding?’ asked Harry when he realised what she wanted, and why.

‘I’d like to “bump into” Pansy, too,’ Lavender began. Seeing Harry’s face, she reconsidered. ‘But Astoria would be best. She’s Daphne’s sister, and _you_ think that she might have some useful information. I could simply visit the Greengrasses and ask, but her mother hates me, and besides, an unannounced visit would put her on guard. You suggested…’ as Lavender continued to look into Harry’s face, he saw realisation spark and her contrition was replaced by a teasing grin. ‘It wasn’t you, was it? You’d have gone to visit the Greengrasses yourself, all “I’m Harry Potter! Tell me what you know!” and you’d have got nothing. I bet it was Ginny… Anyway, if want me to talk to Astoria, it should be a friendly chat. She can’t know that she’s being interrogated. So, if I “just happen to bump into her” outside the bank…’ Lavender looked hopefully up into his eyes.

Harry looked over her shoulder towards Terry, who had been listening to the discussion. He met Harry’s gaze and shrugged. ‘You should’ve explained,’ he grumbled. Lavender had the good sense to look sorry.

‘Astoria, but no one else,’ said Harry firmly. ‘Is that okay, Terry? I know it takes a long time to add an alarm to a name.’

‘Quicker with practice,’ said Terry. Pulling out his wand, he once again began working on the Map. Lavender smiled happily and moved forward. Fearing that she might be about to embrace him, Harry took a step backwards.

‘I just wanted to say thanks, Harry. Hugs don’t mean anything.’ Lavender pouted, shaking her head sadly. ‘Luna hugs you.’

‘Luna hugs everyone,’ Harry said.

‘For your information, so do I,’ said Lavender petulantly. ‘Why is Luna…’

‘Why is Luna?’ interrupted Ron thoughtfully. ‘That’s one of the great mysteries of the universe. When you can figure out the answer to that one, Lavender, please let us know.’

Harry smiled. Lavender giggled, and gave Ron a rather wistful look. He noticed, looked sheepish, and turned away to walk back to his desk.

‘Sorry, Lavender,’ he said.

Although they’d split years earlier, there was still a tension between Ron and Lavender. Harry knew that Ron’s one word was as much as Lavender would ever get, but he wasn’t certain that Lavender realised that she’d just heard Ron’s full and final apology. For a moment, Harry thought that she would follow him, try to continue the conversation. She didn’t, but that was in part because Neville bustled into the office wearing a worried expression.

‘I’ve spoken to Mr Webb, and to Sheriff Phillips,’ Neville announced. ‘The Map confirms that old Mr Rodd is alone in the shop. No one has seen his family for weeks, and the old man is really on edge. How did your visit to Diagon Alley go? And have you found out how the ingredients will be delivered?’

‘Apart from the final name, how’s the new Map, Terry?’ Harry called. Terry gave the thumbs up, and Neville nodded an acknowledgment. ‘As for the ingredients, I’m going back to Diagon Alley now. I’m fairly certain I know who will be doing the delivery, but I need to speak to the delivery company to find out when.’

‘Do you need us?’ asked Ron. Neville, who had been removing his coat, pulled it back on.

‘I’m going alone and out of uniform,’ said Harry. ‘Three Aurors visiting a delivery company might arouse suspicion.’

‘True, but Nev and me should come to Diagon Alley with you anyway,’ said Ron.

‘I’m visiting a delivery company, Ron,’ Harry protested. ‘What could go wrong?’

‘Constant vigilance!’ Ron grumbled, grinning. ‘We don’t need to be with you, just close at hand in case you run into problems. We could take Bobbie. She needs to get out of the office, and she needs to see Diagon Alley. After all, our discovery that Bulstrode is married to Flint was all down to her.’

‘Bobbie needs to see some magical places outside the Ministry,’ Neville added. ‘It will help to give her some more background on the magical world.’

‘I’m not sure I can cope with _more_ background, Neville. It’s only my second day. I’m not even used to the Ministry building,’ said Bobbie, lifting her head from behind an enormous pile of files and smiling at him. ‘Is this report right? Do you really use owls to deliver letters?’

‘Yes,’ several voices chorused.

‘Okay!’ Bobbie shrugged. ‘So, has anyone contacted Ballycastle Bats to see if the box reserved for the exclusive use of the Goyle family is ever occupied? They bought it several years ago. There’s nothing here to say that the club have been contacted, but the bank records show that this payment was for a ten year lease.’

‘He’s a Bats fan, is he?’ Ron asked. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Apparently,’ Bobbie confirmed, waving a piece of parchment. ‘Who are Ballycastle Bats and what, exactly, _is_ Quidditch?’

* * *

Harry pulled his motorbike into a side street near Leicester Square and stopped. He waited for Bobbie to climb from the pillion seat and hand him her helmet before rolling the bike into a parking space. After locking the helmets to the bike, he activated the Anti-Theft and Muggle-Repelling Charms. Unusually, several bystanders were watching him as he walked over to join Bobbie.

Harry wore jeans and his bike jacket, and he wondered if the green Holyhead Harpies T-shirt he wore was enough to mark him out from the crowds. Normally, he was just another Muggle. Bobbie, who was wearing a smart grey pinstripe trouser suit, had also noticed. ‘We make an odd couple,’ she observed. ‘It’s me. I’m too smartly dressed to be sitting on the back of a motorbike. Where do we go from here?’

Harry led her out onto Charing Cross Road and turned left. ‘It’s not far,’ he said. ‘The Leaky Cauldron is only a few hundred yards from here.

‘And the only way into this Diagon Alley place is through a pub?’ Bobbie asked.

‘Not really,’ Harry said. ‘A lot of people use the Floo Network, and there are a few places where you can Apparate in and out. But if you can’t do any of those things—and _you_ can’t—then this is the only way in. Ron and Neville will be waiting for us.’

‘How can you hide an entire street in the middle of London?’ Bobbie asked as they strolled up the busy street side by side.

‘I really don’t know,’ Harry admitted, stopping outside the pub. ‘I think it’s some sort of magic?’

Bobbie laughed. She’d taken two more steps before realising that he wasn’t alongside her. When she turned to find him she peered around for a few seconds, apparently unable to see him. He waved. She stepped up to him, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘This is weird,’ she said, squinting at Harry and the pub door. ‘With your house, Grimmauld Place, I couldn’t see it at all, but now I can. Here, it’s different. It’s as if my eyes simply don’t want to look at the pub.’

‘But you can see it?’ Harry asked.

‘Only when I concentrate,’ said Bobbie. She shivered. ‘I don’t like it out here, it’s unsettling, creepy; let’s go in.’ She pushed open the door, and Harry followed her into the pub.

Ron and Neville were standing at the bar. They were talking to Hannah, who was placing dirty glasses in the washer. As it was still well before noon, the place was quiet. Even so, the few people in the place fell silent when Harry and Bobbie walked into the Leaky Cauldron.

‘You made it, Bobbie,’ observed Ron. ‘I knew you would. Did you have problems seeing the pub door? Hermione’s parents told me that they used to, when she was little, but they find it a lot easier now. Jean says that it’s simply a matter of practice.’

‘Bobbie, this is Hannah,’ Neville added, introducing his girlfriend.

‘Hello, Hannah,’ said Bobbie.

‘Hi, Hannah,’ Harry added, nodding a greeting to the smiling blonde girl. ‘I’m not stopping, I’m sorry. I’ll go straight through.’

‘See you later, mate,’ said Ron.

‘Have a good day off, Harry, and thanks for delivering Bobbie,’ added Neville. His voice was louder than usual, as his words were for the benefit of Hannah’s customers. They’d soon be following him.

Making his way out from the pub and into Diagon Alley, Harry checked the scrap of parchment on which he’d written the address. He was looking for Circe House, 127 Diagon Alley, which was some distance beyond Gringotts. Ignoring the stares, he strode rapidly along the street.

Like most properties on that part of Diagon Alley, the property was tall and narrow-fronted. There were a series of brass plaques on the wall just inside the door. “Sadie Ebhart, Commercial Portkeys Ltd.” was the only business on the third floor. On the floor below were “The Kneazle Protection Association” and “Badcock Broom Repairs”; above was “Straughan, Straughan and Worcester”.

The narrow stairs twisted up through the centre of the building, and the dingy stairwell was illuminated by nothing more than the scant light coming through the transom windows above the doors. The stairs were bare wood, and the floors on the landings were covered in shabby and patched buff linoleum. When Harry began his ascent, there was no one about. Were it not for the faint whisper of conversations behind the office doors, he’d have thought the place deserted.

The company name had been magically etched onto the frosted glass of the door at the top of the stairs, but unlike the floor below, there was no noise coming from behind the door. Harry knocked, and entered without waiting for a response.

The features of the rather plump girl behind the desk to the left of the door were hidden behind a large bubble of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum; all Harry could see was mousy brown hair and startled brown eyes. She’d been peering over the bubble and carefully examining her painted fingernails when he opened the door. Upon seeing him, the girl gulped, inhaled the bubble and, unfortunately for her, the gum. She almost choked, but managed to cough the gum out onto the desk. Whilst waiting for the mortified young woman to stop spluttering and dry her watering eyes, Harry looked around the room.

The wall behind the girl was half-glass, but the glass was frosted and there were closed blinds on the other side. The plaque on that door read “General Manager”. On the wall to the girl’s left, opposite the door through which Harry had entered, was a door marked “Porters’ Office”. The other wall contained a line of dark green filing cabinets. Above the cabinets were a number of photographs of witches and wizards, each with a certificate beneath. They were all head and torso images and everyone wore green robes bearing the legend “Sadie Ebhart: Portage – Storage – Logistics”. The nearest photo to Harry, that of a bald middle-aged man, was—according to the certificate below it—of Bernie Biddle, Porter, Portkey Office Licence ref: 0005736/10.

‘Harry Potter,’ the girl finally gasped, blushing profusely. Harry turned to face her.

‘Is Madam Ebhart available?’ he asked politely. ‘I don’t have an appointment, sorry, but…’

The girl was on her feet in an instant. She dashed through the door behind her desk, and shrieked ‘Mum, _Harry Potter_ is here, and he wants to see _you_!’

‘Abigail Ebhart,’ said an annoyed voice, ‘how many times must I tell you…’

‘It’s really _him_ , Mum!’ the girl interrupted.

Harry peered around the door. The large middle-aged woman behind the desk swore, pushed herself to her feet, and beckoned Harry into the room.

‘Come in, sir. I thought she was joking, sorry,’ the woman admitted. ‘Off you go, Abigail. Close the door on your way out, and keep Bernie and the boys out!’ The woman indicated a robust-looking wooden upright chair, which stood next to the window. ‘Sit down, sir, I’m Sadie Ebhart. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s an Auror Office matter,’ Harry confided. ‘But, please don’t call me sir; call me Harry.’

‘An Auror Office matter!’ Sadie looked alarmed. ‘We deliver what we’re paid to deliver, sir… Mr… Harry. If we’ve been involved in transporting something…’

‘No,’ Harry interrupted, trying to reassure her. ‘It’s simply…’ He paused and tried to come up with a plausible story that avoided any mention of a kidnapping.

‘I understand that you carry out all deliveries for Hogan’s Wholesale, of Dublin,’ he said. When she nodded, he continued. ‘We’ve received a tip off that a shipment of potion ingredients to Beaker and Rodd in Cardiff will be targeted by thieves, and that the Cardiff shop is likely to be burglarised the evening after the ingredients are delivered. All I want to know is the date and time of the delivery, so that we can be ready that evening.’

‘A burglary?’ Sadie asked. ‘Is that Auror Office business?’

‘Not usually, no. Did you read about the burglary in Muggle London, the one where a Muggle was killed?’ Harry answered her question with another, hoping that she’d jump to the conclusion he wanted her to.

‘The house belonged to that friend of yours, the one who’s working in the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary,’ said Sadie nodding excitedly. ‘Is it the same gang? The papers said that it was one of the people you’re after, the last of Lord-You-Know-Who’s people, and that they were looking for _potion ingredients_!’ Sadie beamed as she realised what he was saying.

‘The Auror Office has not confirmed that any of the people involved in that murder were followers of Tom Riddle,’ said Harry carefully. ‘Obviously, I’m relying on your discretion, Sadie. Can I call you Sadie?’

‘Of course.’ She nodded eagerly.

‘All I need is the date and time,’ he told her. ‘Mr Hewitson of the Portkey Office told me that the delivery hasn’t been registered with them yet. He said that you’re unlikely to register the Portkey until the morning of the delivery.’

‘So, old Hewitson does know how his Department operates,’ said Sadie sharply. ‘There have been times when I’ve wondered.’ She hesitated. ‘I can’t tell you, Harry, not yet. Hogan’s have us on a one-day retainer contract. When their package is complete, or when they decide that they want to send it, we have twenty-four hours to arrange collection and delivery. I won’t know myself until they contact me. Of course I’ll owl you the moment I know anything myself.’

The office door opened and the plump young receptionist, Abigail, entered. ‘You should get a Mirrorphone, Mum,’ she said. ‘I bet Harry’s got one! Something might happen to an owl, but you could contact him in an instant if you had one. I’ve got one, Harry! I could…’

‘Were you listening at my door?’ Sadie asked her daughter.

‘Yeah,’ the girl admitted unrepentantly. She turned and gazed admiringly at Harry. ‘I’ve told Mum she needs a Mirrorphone, but she won’t listen! We could touch Mirrors, Harry. I could…’

She stopped and squealed in delight as Harry pulled out his Auror wallet and slid a Mirrorphone from it. ‘That’s a very good idea, Abigail,’ said Harry with a quiet firmness. ‘But now I’m relying on both of you to let me know, and to be discreet!’

‘We will,’ said Sadie, glaring at her daughter.

‘Is it okay if I tell my friends afterwards?’ Abigail asked.

‘If we catch them,’ said Harry, sighing. ‘I have two Mirrorphones, this one is for Auror work.’

The girl nodded, and they touched Mirrorphones.

'Contact between... sexy Abi Ebhart... and... Auror Potter,' the phones announced.

‘Sexy Abi!’ Sadie grumbled. Storm clouds had been gathering on her face, and now the lightning was flashing from her eyes.

'Please place a finger on the Mirrorphone,' the Mirrorphones stated as they continued to magically connect.

'Auror Potter...' the Mirrorphone asked. 'Do you wish to establish contact with... sexy Abi Ebhart?'

Harry looked down at the now blushing Abigail; he hesitated before finally saying 'Yes.'

The Mirrorphone then repeated the process.

'Contact established... Auror Potter... please provide an identifying name for... sexy Abi Ebhart,' the Mirrorphone said.

'Abigail Ebhart,' said Harry carefully.

When the process repeated itself Abigail excitedly squealed, 'Harry Potter.'

Harry moved his Mirrorphone away from Abigail's.

'Auror Potter... to contact... sexy Abi Ebhart... simply touch the mirror, and say... Abigail Ebhart.'

While Harry’s phone spoke, Abigail’s was also repeating her version of the message.

'We _will_ be in touch the moment we know anything, Harry,’ Sadie said. ‘You can rely on me. Now, if we’ve finished here, I’d like to have a word with my daughter.’

‘Thanks, Sadie.’ Harry reached over the table and shook the older woman’s hand. ‘Abigail.’ He nodded at the girl who was staring proudly at the words “Harry Potter” that had appeared in her mirror.

As he closed the door to the office, Harry heard the tirade begin. ‘Listening at the door! Sexy Abi!’ Sadie shouted. ‘Give me that bloody mirror-thing right now! I’m confiscating it! How does it work?’

* * *

‘We really must do something about these gardens,’ said Astoria as they walked up the gravel drive towards the gates.

‘We have more important matters to resolve than the state of the gardens,’ observed Draco unhappily.

Astoria reached across and squeezed his hand. ‘I know,’ she said sympathetically. She released his hand before he became uncomfortable. ‘But the last of the claims against your family has finally been resolved, Draco. The court cases are finally settled. You can take stock, plan a recovery. Now, at last, you can look to the future.’

‘Have you been talking to mother?’ Draco asked. ‘That’s what she said to me, just before you arrived.’

‘I talk to your mother all the time, you know that,’ said Astoria. ‘But we haven’t talked about your finances. After all, I’m not a Malfoy. But I know about business, my father was a successful businessman. Unfortunately, Mother is hopeless, and Daphne… Well, you know... So, since Daddy… Since he... Since he was killed, I’ve had to do my best.’

Astoria had been hoping for some sympathy, for the slightest hint of empathy from Draco, but he said nothing. She scolded herself for her foolish hopes and reminded herself that Draco was an important man. With the effective extinction of the Black and Lestrange families, his was arguably the most senior of the Pureblood families, yet his greatness was unacknowledged. Instead, he was a pariah. Everything about Draco, from his name to his problems, dwarfed her.

When they reached the gate the Bailiff stepped back. These days there was only one Bailiff guarding the place, and soon even that limited protection would be gone. Draco had finally been acquitted of all charges other than a few misdemeanours, which had been dealt with by punitive fines. The courts had also decided that Lucius was of unsound mind and unable to stand trial. Within the week the Office of the High Sheriff of Mercia would remove the last Bailiffs from the gate of Malfoy Manor, and the Malfoys would be on their own.

Astoria looked up at the wrought iron gates, hoping that the ancient magical protections would hold. They had to, because the Malfoys had many enemies.

Once outside, Draco closed and carefully sealed the gates. Acknowledging the Bailiff’s presence with a curt nod, he turned his back on the woman and held out his arm. Astoria took it, and they Apparated to Diagon Alley.

When they arrived, she released him, but he crooked his arm and Astoria slipped her hand through it. _Courage_ , she reminded herself, _you’re better than them, act like it._ As they strolled silently up the street towards the bank, her hand on his arm, Astoria was acutely aware of the sidelong glances. No one knew her, of course, and not everyone recognised him, either. In a way, she was his disguise, his shield. No one expected him to have a young woman on his arm.

As they processed towards the bank, she counted and classified people’s reactions to them. About two thirds of those in the street simply ignored them; they were either ignorant of the blond man whose arm she held, or so preoccupied with their own lives that they simply didn’t register who he was. The remainder looked and tried to place him. The majority could not. She could see them thinking. Did they know him personally? If not, where had they seen him? By the time they figured it out, if they ever did, it was too late. Only a tiny percentage recognised him instantly. They glared. An elderly man even spat on the street and muttered the words “Death Eater!” But no one confronted them, and Draco strolled unconcernedly onwards like the great man he was. They had almost reached their destination when it happened.

‘That’s him,’ a woman shouted. ‘That’s the man I saw leaving the crime scene! You there! Stop!’

The woman who was pointing an accusatory finger at Draco was tall and crop-haired, and she wore Muggle clothes. It was a ridiculous fashion which some foolish youngsters, mostly Half-bloods and Mudbloods, were following. Astoria, who read the fashion magazines, knew enough about Muggle fashions to know that this woman had got it wrong. She was wearing a man’s suit, it was a grey pinstripe jacket and trousers, although it did seem to be cut for her.

‘Hello, Draco,’ a man said.

Astoria had been concentrating on the woman; she hadn’t noticed that two black-coated Aurors were mere feet away from her. One was Longbottom, the other—the one who’d spoken—was Weasley. He looked like a man who’d picked up a Knut and discovered it was a Galleon.

‘Positive identification, Draco,’ said the ginger-haired Auror smugly. ‘You were seen leaving the crime scene.’

‘Stop wasting my time, Weasley,’ Draco snapped. ‘You’ve already checked. I was at home when Finch-Fletchley’s place was burgled.’

‘I saw you,’ the trouser-wearing woman said firmly.

‘This woman is obviously deranged,’ said Draco, contemptuously dismissing the allegation. ‘I mean, just look at what she’s wearing. She might as well be a Muggle.’

‘I am a _Muggle_ ,’ the woman said, stepping forwards to stand directly in front of Draco. ‘Constable Roberta Beadle, Metropolitan Police, and you’re nicked.’

‘Get out of my way,’ Draco ordered. ‘I don’t have time for this; I have a very important meeting with the goblins.’

As Draco spoke, Astoria saw the gleam in Weasley’s eyes, and she knew that her boyfriend’s final words would spur the lanky, loutish, Auror into action.

‘An accusation has been made, Draco,’ Weasley said with a self-satisfied smirk. He stepped forward and grabbed Draco’s arm. ‘We’d be remiss in our duties if we didn’t investigate, wouldn’t we, Neville?’

‘We’ve checked once, Ron,’ the other Auror said.

‘We need to check again, Nev. And I’m sure Bobbie has some questions for Draco,’ said Ron.

‘I do,’ the woman said firmly.

Astoria gave Draco’s arm a warning squeeze, but he ignored it and continued to protest. ‘I’ll be late for my appointment!’

She sighed, wishing that she’d been able to prevent him from saying those words. Unfortunately, Weasley could make him bite every time, and once again her boyfriend had played right into the Auror’s hands.

‘I’m sure that the goblins will understand,’ said Ron, grinning. ‘Perhaps your skinny little girlfriend will be able to charm them. After all, she looks a lot like a goblin.’

Sensing what was about to happen, Astoria grabbed Draco’s arm with both hands, preventing him from drawing his wand. ‘He’s baiting you, just ignore him,’ she said. ‘He’s jealous of you.’ Ignoring Weasley’s dismissive snort, she pressed on. ‘I’ll speak to the goblins, Draco,’ Astoria said. ‘You can’t simply dismiss the Aurors. Don’t let him annoy you.’ She turned to address Longbottom. ‘Where are you taking him?’

‘The Sheriff of the Metropolis has offices just down the road. We can go there,’ the scar-faced blond man said.

‘It’s him.’ the woman insisted. ‘It’s definitely him!’

Astoria watched her boyfriend being escorted away by the Aurors, being subjected to a public humiliation by Weasley, and then hurried into the bank. Unfortunately, the goblins refused to discuss anything with her. She wasn’t a Malfoy, so they would not even allow her to reschedule the appointment.

Angry and frustrated, she stormed out of the bank. ‘Bloody Weasley, arrogant sod!’ she said to no one in particular.

‘You don’t have to tell _me_ , Astoria. I’ve a lot of experience with _that_ , believe me.’

Astoria turned and found herself staring into a pair of once-familiar violet eyes.

‘I thought I was joining the Auror Office,’ admitted Lavender, seething with annoyance. ‘But I’m nothing but a bloody messenger for my moronic pillock of an ex-boyfriend. I’m here to tell you that Draco’s now at the Auror Office “helping them with their enquiries.” So, that’s my job done! How are you, Asti? I’ve hardly seen you since your Dad’s funeral. Everyone seemed to avoid me when I was in that damned wheelchair. How’s your mum coping? How are you coping? You poor thing, it’s just you and your mum now, isn’t it? I don’t know what Daphne was thinking!’ Astoria found her hands being grasped by Lavender’s.

‘I...’ Astoria stared into the face of her cousin, and smiled. ‘I wanted to visit you, but Mum... Well, you know...’ Astoria said. Even as she spoke, she hoped that Lavender didn’t actually know.

After the Battle, Lavender’s mother, Carmine, had held out the hand of friendship to her family, to the Greengrasses. Some, like Carmine’s sister Scarlet, had taken it. Their brother, Astoria’s father had been killed at the Battle, and he’d been fighting alongside the Dark Lord. Astoria had no idea what her father would have done had he survived, but her mother would have nothing to do with the Browns. _‘Carmine married a Half-Blood and spawned another,’_ Astoria’s mother had said.

Almost before Astoria realised what was happening, she was being guided along Diagon Alley while listening to Lavender chatter. Her cousin led her into a chintzy little café named Tansy’s Tea Rooms, which was almost directly opposite the Witch Weekly offices.

‘Ron is such a prat,’ Lavender concluded after listing the many faults of her ex. She’d been chattering constantly, and Astoria could do nothing but nod in agreement. ‘What’s Draco like? He’s not my type, of course, but he seems to be smitten with you.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Astoria anxiously. ‘Sometimes I think he doesn’t really see me.’

‘Inattentive boys!’ Lavender shook her head sympathetically. ‘But that’s most of them! I bet he’s better than Ron. I practically had to jump on him before he noticed me. Draco has a lot on his mind. I suppose there must be times when he’s…distant?’

Astoria found herself nodding.

‘Ron never had a lot on his mind. Although he didn’t have much mind, either, perhaps that’s why he was so inattentive. And you wouldn’t believe how petty he is!’

‘Oh, I would,’ said Astoria forcefully. ‘He picks on Draco, you know? He’s nothing but a bully.’

‘He was the worst boyfriend I ever had,’ Lavender confirmed, ordering tea and scones from the tall, sunken-cheeked waitress who’d come to take their order. ‘Of course Seamus went too far in the other direction. He smothered me!’

They berated boys in general, and talked about Draco and the ridiculous clothes Muggles wore, and they laughed. Astoria was reminded of those days out with her sister, the days before Daphne had gone on the run.

‘You miss her, don’t you?’ Lavender asked quietly. ‘I always wanted a sister, but there’s just me. I’d have... I’d have done what we’ve been doing, talked about boys and clothes and... I’ve got Parvati, of course, and Padma. Friends are good, they’re great. But I wish I had a sister.’

‘She left me,’ said Astoria viciously. ‘She left me, and Mum, and ran off with that no-good Half-Blood boyfriend of hers. Mum says she’s getting what she deserves, but...’

‘Getting what she deserves?’ asked Lavender, alarmed. ‘You know, if I’d gone on the run with Ron, I’d probably have killed him, or vice-versa. Watching him eat could be very unpleasant and having to do it every day...’ She shuddered. ‘It’s not until you’re with someone all the time that you find out what they’re really like.’

Astoria looked around and lowered her voice. ‘Lavender, could you do something for me?’

‘Anything,’ Lavender told her.

‘Could you find out...’ Astoria hesitated. ‘Would she be sent to Azkaban? She didn’t... I mean she hasn’t... She hasn’t done anything serious, or if she has, he made her. He made her do everything. She’s unhappy, I know she is.’

‘Daphne found them somewhere to hide when they were on the run,’ said Lavender thoughtfully. ‘But she didn’t fight at the Battle. The others did, and they all fought on the wrong side. The Aurors aren’t sure about Bletchley, but they’re certain that the others are killers. I know one thing, Asti, if Daphne could bring one of them in—if she could help the Auror’s catch one, or all, of them—they probably wouldn’t even charge her with anything.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You’re in contact with her, aren’t you? How do you keep in touch, by owl?’

Astoria nodded.

‘Write to her, let her know that surrendering herself would be the best thing she could do,’ Lavender advised. She smiled at the younger woman. ‘You mentioned that the goblins wouldn’t let you schedule Draco’s appointment for him. Did you think about making an appointment to see them for yourself? You could both turn up, and you could exchange the appointment with Draco. I’d do that now. Make yourself indispensible to him. He’ll like that.’

‘Thanks, Lavender,’ Astoria said. She reached for her purse. ‘I’ll pay. It’s the least I can do.’

Lavender shook her head. ‘We’re family, Asti, we help each other. We’ll split the bill.’


	11. Home Life

**Home Life**

In many ways it was very impressive; nevertheless, Pansy Parkinson did not like the dining room. 

The high ceiling was painted with hunting scenes, all of which featured knights and their ladies. Many ancient and fading tapestries hung on three of its walls. The oldest tapestry showed the boy Arthur outside Wayland’s smithy, where he was pulling the sword—Caledfwlch—from the anvil. The fourth wall was pierced by three tall, narrow, diamond-paned windows. Between the windows were whitewashed walls, undecorated but for a single shield bearing the Nott family crest—crossed keys above a knotted rope, all in gold, on a field of blue.

Unfortunately, the hall looked out into the shadiest corner of the courtyard, a place where the light struggled to find its way in through the windows. It was neither bright nor cheerful when used for breakfast or lunch. When the sun dropped below the outer walls, not long after noon, it was at best sombre and impersonal; often—as on this occasion—it was dingy and depressing.

Tradition dictated that the dining hall was the place where “The Master of Pennerley” ate; it was that simple. While Pansy didn’t enjoy the experience, it was unavoidable; she wasn’t about to suggest a change. Breaking a tradition that was likely at least half-a-millennium old wasn’t a task to be undertaken lightly.

Pansy carefully placed her knife and fork parallel on her plate. She’d only eaten one of the two roast quails and had left almost all of the heavily peppered mashed swede, as she didn’t care for it. The Master of Pennerley ate well, and so did she. As a consequence, she was putting on weight. Although Theodore hadn’t said anything, she knew that he wasn’t happy about the fact. He was unhappy about something else, too, but she had no idea what it was. He was much more difficult to read than Draco.

Picking up the carved silver goblet, she took a sip of the elf-made wine and risked a glance at her fiancé. He was more than twenty feet away from her, at the other end of the smooth and highly polished mahogany table. As she expected, he was calmly watching her, assessing her. He was well out of reach, much too far away for her to be coquettish. Her unease about the room coalesced into a single realisation; it wasn’t an intimate space.

Despite its size and its dingy grandeur, the room wasn’t a statement of the Notts’ wealth; it had more to do with their longevity. In that respect it was redundant, as everyone who was anyone knew how ancient the family was. No one knew exactly how rich they were and, despite her best efforts, Pansy had been unable to find out.

It wasn’t a showy wealth; that was the problem. It was the wealth of a family who never had to spend anything, because they already had everything they needed. Her realisation made Pansy look down at the remains of her evening meal in contemplation. The Parkinsons were an old family, most people knew that. But to the Notts they were upstarts, newcomers. It was an ordinary Saturday evening, and she was eating roast quail.

As she gazed at her unfinished meal, Pansy wondered how many generations of Notts had used the items in front of her. The solid silver cutlery was, Theodore had once told her, “new”. It was over a century old; nevertheless, relatively speaking he was correct. The bone china service from which they were dining dated back to the reign of mad King George. The table, like the room in which it sat, was sturdily Tudor. As for the goblet, she was no expert, but it appeared to be early medieval. She lifted it again, but rather than drink, she simply examined the intricate Celtic knotwork designs that covered it.

‘There are two dozen of them. A gift to an ancestor of mine during the Anarchy, from the Empress Maude,’ said Theodore, once again demonstrating an insight into what she was thinking. ‘They’re among the oldest of our possessions, but if you’d prefer something modern…’

‘No, not at all,’ she said, picking up what she thought was the mildest hint of distain in his final word. ‘The goblet is magnificent. I really like it.’

‘You can change your mind. You used to “really like” Draco Malfoy, but now you don’t.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Despite the physical distance between them, she tried being flirtatious. ‘He’s my ex-boyfriend, silly,’ she said, keeping her voice low and sultry. ‘Surely you don’t _want_ me to like him.’

‘I want him to trust and respect us, my dear,’ said Theodore evenly. ‘I believe that he could be useful to us in the future. Unfortunately, the Aurors remain very interested in him. Do you have any idea why?’

‘No, Theo.’ Worried, Pansy shook her head. ‘Should I?’

‘It appears that an eye-witness has positively identified Draco as the person who killed a Muggle while burgling the Mudblood Finch-Fletchley’s home.’

Pansy gave a squeal of delight, and then saw Theodore’s face. She fell silent.

‘He can prove that he wasn’t there, my dear, and the Aurors aren’t stupid.’

Pansy opened her mouth.

‘Weasley is something of a buffoon, true, but that’s a very different thing,’ Theodore said firmly. ‘They suspect that the person who killed the Muggle was using Polyjuice. And what does that mean?’

Pansy thought quickly. ‘That the Aurors’ attempt to restrict the availability of Polyjuice ingredients isn’t working?’ she suggested. Theodore remained impassive; she thought that she detected a twitch of exasperation, but couldn’t be certain.

‘It means that the Aurors, and Draco, now realise that someone has given one of Draco’s enemies some strands of his hair,’ he said. ‘Based on the use of blasting spells at Finch-Fletchley’s place, they suspect Gregory Goyle was responsible for the Muggle’s death. Because of this, the Aurors will undoubtedly interview anyone who’s had the opportunity to steal Draco’s hair. That list is short. The Malfoy’s have very few visitors, and Draco rarely visits anyone.’

Theodore leaned forward a fraction and lowered his voice. ‘He visits us.’

Sensing danger, Pansy stood. She needed to be closer to him. ‘True, but...’

‘Sit!’ he ordered. Not wishing to antagonise him further, she sat and waited for him to continue.

‘I do not want the Aurors to turn up here unannounced,’ said Theodore quietly. ‘I have assured Draco that we would never remove hairs from the cloak of a guest and send them to someone like Gregory Goyle. I have even promised him that we will both take Veritaserum, in front of him, should he wish to be certain of our honesty.’

Pansy whimpered in panic and decided to confess. There was no need.

‘Don’t worry, Pansy; I have already prepared a Veritaserum antidote for you, should he decide to take me up on my offer.’ His glare surprised her. Theodore rarely allowed his emotions to show. ‘ _Should_ we marry, you will be joining the Noble and Most Ancient House of Nott. We follow the ancient rules of courtesy. Guests at this house, _even our enemies_ , are under our protection. While they are within these walls, we do nothing to harm them. We are not barbarians, unlike the Malfoys.’ His words were barely more than a whisper, but they were knife sharp, and they cut her to the bone. 

‘Sorry, Theodore,’ she said, bowing her head.

‘It was Goyle?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But, Draco was…’

‘I’m not interested in reasons or excuses. It simply isn’t done; you will never do such a thing again.’ Theodore reverted to his normal voice, but he sounded frustrated. ‘You must trust me, my dear. If you have a problem with Draco, other than mere annoyance at his abandoning you during his attempts to curry favour with Voldemort, let me know.’ He paused, and gave her the briefest of smiles. ‘He was foolish, and has lost much, so why punish him again? His loss is my gain.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled back, believing that the discussion was over. It wasn’t; he struck again.

‘If you know where Goyle is, why haven’t you told me?’

‘I can’t!’ she protested. ‘I’m not his secret keeper! I can’t tell you anything, Theo, darling. I’m truly sorry!’

‘Ah!’ He nodded in understanding and gave her a thin-lipped smile. ‘I have never visited Goyle Hall, but _you_ could.’

‘Alone!’ said Pansy. ‘No, please! Greg, I can deal with; but Bletchley...’ She shook her head.

‘So, the lying Half-blood Bletchley is with him! Don’t worry, dearest, I would never place you in such danger,’ Theodore assured her. ‘I’ve no reason to ask. From our perspective, the longer Goyle, Bletchley, Bulstrode, and the others are on the run, the better. The search is keeping the Aurors busy. So long as they’re looking for them, they aren’t looking at anyone else.’ Lowering his head, he scratched an eyebrow and then stared into her face. ‘Between us, Pansy, we can deal with Draco. If you want him embarrassed in some way, then you have but to ask. I could ensure that there would be nothing to indicate that we were behind it.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Pansy, sensing the answer he wanted to hear.

‘Please remember that I would be very unhappy if your future actions draw us to the attention of the Aurors, my dear. I would be very unhappy indeed.’

‘Sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything I can do...’

‘There is. I’d like you to contact your friend Daphne,’ he said. ‘Information from my sources inside the Ministry makes me believe that the Aurors know that Bletchley is planning to intercept a shipment of potion ingredients. I’d rather her husband remained free for a little longer. I’d be interested to discover whether this hare-brained scheme of his has any chance of success.’

‘Scheme, what scheme?’ Pansy asked.

‘He intends to try to ... persuade ... people to kill Potter.’

* * *

When Hermione entered her kitchen she was still in her dressing gown, and was drying her hair with her wand. Ron was sitting at the breakfast bar, drinking tea and eating toast. Despite the fact that he was surrounded by chaos, her boyfriend was looking rather pleased with himself. . The bench behind him was a sea of crumbs. On seeing it, Hermione’s face fell, and Ron looked a little worried.

‘What on earth have you been doing?’ she scolded. ‘Look at the mess.’

By way of explanation, he pointed at the gleaming chrome device behind him, a glistening island standing in a sea of toast crumbs. ‘That’s because I made you some toast in your new electronical toast-maker,’ he told her proudly. ‘It took me a while, but I eventually figured out that you had to push that lever down to make it work. I’ll tidy up later, don’t worry.’

‘It’s just called a toaster, Ron,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t explain why there are so many crumbs everywhere.’

‘Well, I had to turn the _toaster_ upside down to get the toast out, obviously!’ he explained patiently.

Hermione sighed, and beckoned him over to the bench. ‘This dial controls the time, and when it’s done, the toaster will switch itself off and the toast will pop up!’ she explained. ‘And if you want it out before the timer’s done, you press this button.’ She demonstrated the controls to him.

‘Time, dial, pop up, otherwise, button. Got it,’ said Ron slowly. ‘Complicated, isn’t it? At least that explains why the second batch of toast jumped out before it was done. At first I thought I’d broken the _toaster_ , but when I pushed the lever down again it worked.’

The relief was obvious on his face, but after the incident with the washing machine, Hermione wasn’t surprised. At least he hadn’t flooded the place again.

‘It’s _not_ complicated; it’s one button, a dial, and a lever!’ she said. ‘If you can’t master a simple toaster, Ron, you’ll never master driving a car.’ Turning, she pointed at the empty toast rack. ‘And where’s this toast you’ve made for me?’ 

Ron looked at the rack, and then at the slice of toast and marmalade in his hand. He’d only taken one bite from it.

‘Oh,’ he admitted sheepishly, ‘I seem to have eaten it all. I’ll make you some more; it’ll be good practice for me. You can have this.’ He thrust the slice he’d been eating towards her face. She opened her mouth and bit down on it. Had she not, the toast would have been rammed onto her lips instead of between them.

‘Fanks,’ she mumbled, staring up at him with the mix of annoyance, frustration, affection, and happiness he invariably brought with him. He’d made such a mess; she’d told him how to use the toaster when she’d bought it, but he _never_ listened. He’d given her the last slice of toast, he wouldn’t do that for _anyone_ but her.

‘There’s tea in the pot, if you want a cuppa,’ he said, adding to her happiness. He was trying, in every sense of the word.

Nodding, Hermione sat at the kitchen table and allowed him to pour tea into her breakfast mug. As she munched her toast, she watched him work. Like her, he was wearing a dressing gown. He, however, had not yet showered; the orange glow of the morning sun caught his jawline and showed that he hadn’t shaved either. She smiled. There was something endearing about the concentration on his face as he carefully cut two more slices from the loaf, put them into the toaster, and pushed the lever down. He turned anxiously back to face her.

‘Should I have turned the dial first, or can I do it now?’ he asked.

‘Now will be fine, Ron,’ she assured him. ‘What time shall we leave for Mum and Dad’s?’

Ron shrugged. ‘Whenever you want. If you want, we can go as soon as I’ve done the triple-Sh.’

‘Triple-Sh?’

‘Shit, shave, shower,’ he said with a grin.

She sighed and shook her head. ‘I despair,’ she said, sipping her tea.

‘You’d a spare what?’ he asked promptly.

She laughed, and coughed as the tea caught in her throat.

‘Some people have no sense of decorum,’ said Ron primly.

She thumped him, and then threw her arms around him. ‘Idiot,’ she told him.

‘Yup,’ he said proudly. He gave her a quick hug, releasing her so she could take another drink of tea. ‘When we get there, I reckon Harry will want to talk to you about Bobbie Beadle,’ he continued. ‘He’s got a meeting with Kingsley and Robards at nine o’clock tomorrow morning; it’s going to be about her.’

‘What about Bobbie?’

‘Robards doesn’t like her. He doesn’t even like the idea of her. “A Muggle in the Ministry!” He wants her out.’

‘I thought you said that she’d already given you a lot of help,’

‘She has, yeah. “Opening up new lines of enquiry”, she calls it. I told you about our last interview with Draco, didn’t I?’

‘Several times, and in great detail,’ she said resignedly. ‘You really shouldn’t pick on him, you know.’

‘It was worth it. You should’ve seen his face when he realised he was talking to a real live Muggle. Priceless!’ said Ron gleefully. ‘Besides, you know he’d pick on me if he got the chance. He always did! He used to pick on you, too.’

‘We’re better than that,’ said Hermione stiffly.

‘ _You_ are,’ he said proudly.

‘You arrested him again, Ron,’ she said, once again caught between annoyance and pleasure. ‘But ultimately it was a waste of time, wasn’t it?’

Ron shook his head. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘True, his alibi was solid, but by taking him in for more questioning we made him miss some important appointment or other. So it wasn’t a complete loss.’

‘Ron!’ Hermione frowned.

‘Seriously, Hermione, it really was worth it. That girl of his, Hysteria Greengrass…’

‘Astoria,’ Hermione interjected. Ron ignored her.

‘She came up trumps for us yesterday. I meant to tell you about it last night, but you distracted me.’ Ron paused for several seconds, staring into the distance and grinning foolishly.

Happy Ron was such a wonderful sight. Hermione smiled at him, and successfully fought down the urge to bite his earlobe, because she knew where _that_ would lead. He suddenly looked serious.

‘Lavender…’ His face fell as his ex-girlfriend’s name came out in a rapid rush of embarrassment. Hermione was well aware that, in front of her, it always did. ‘Well, I don’t know what _she_ did, but _Astoria_ has contacted ... us. Daphne’s tired of being on the run; she wants to give herself up. With any luck we’ll have Bletchley in a cell soon, and that’ll be one more name off the list. And Bobbie has confirmed that the person she saw leaving Justin’s house was Draco. She was so certain it was him that she refused to believe his alibi. We couldn’t convince her until we demonstrated Polyjuice to her. Thanks to Bobbie, we’re certain that whoever broke into Justin’s place and killed that Muggle has access to Polyjuice and is close enough to Draco to be able to procure hair or toenail clippings or whatever from him.’

‘Astoria...’ Hermione began.

‘That’s exactly what I said,’ Ron agreed. ‘Harry’s worried that Astoria might be lying, that the whole thing might be a trap.’

‘I assume that Astoria told Lavender; what does Lavender think?’ asked Hermione. Ron reacted exactly as she expected.

‘Dunno. Haven’t asked her,’ he said rapidly. ‘You should tell Harry. He can ask her.’

‘You could ask Lavender yourself,’ Hermione told him.

Ron gave noncommittal mumble. Satisfied, Hermione returned to their discussion of the Muggle policewoman who’d tracked them down.

‘If Bobbie is useful to you, why does Robards want rid of her?’ Hermione asked. ‘If it’s simply because she’s a Muggle…’

‘That’s a big part of it,’ Ron said. ‘Although to be fair, Robards doesn’t like any changes Harry suggests. Or me, or... Really, he doesn’t like any changes at all.’

‘Prejudice,’ Hermione began.

‘I don’t think that it’s because she’s a Muggle,’ said Ron hastily. ‘Well it _is_ because she’s a Muggle, but I don’t think it’s exactly prejudice. Robards doesn’t think that she can do a proper job because she can’t do fieldwork. He told us that it’s not safe to employ her. He can’t send her out alone; she’ll be in constant danger if people realise she’s a Muggle and can’t defend herself.’

‘I can see his point,’ said Hermione thoughtfully. She shivered, and Ron hugged her. ‘No one ever attacked Mum and Dad when they visited Diagon Alley, but they got some odd looks and a few rude remarks, and I think they’d have been in serious trouble if they’d ever gone into Knockturn Alley. Mum and Dad had no reason to go anywhere risky, but Bobbie would be actively chasing criminals. Robards may be right; it could be very dangerous for her.’

Ron nodded. ‘We’ve already issued her with one of the hex-proof coats, but I’m going to have a word with George about increasing the protections on it. We offered her one of the Shield hats, but she refused to wear it. She called it a “stupid pointy hat” and then she got annoyed when I said that “stupid pointy hats” are what Muggle policemen wear.’

‘You’ve got a point,’ agreed Hermione, laughing. ‘But they’re traditional.’

‘So are wizard’s hats,’ said Ron. ‘We should be able to add a Shield Charm to the coat, so I reckon she’ll be okay.’ His face fell. ‘The only problem is, she’s creating so much more work for everyone that they’re talking about authorising overtime. I don’t want any overtime! I don’t have the time to work overtime. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes can’t keep up with the demand for Mirrorphones. Business is booming, and I can only spend a couple of days a week helping George.’

* * *

Harry woke with a feeling that he was being watched.

He was. Ginny’s chocolate brown eyes were so close to his face that they were almost in focus even though he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ she said brightly. ‘If you hadn’t stirred when you did, I’d have got up and made you a cuppa.’

‘Morning,’ he mumbled, pulling a face. There was something—a hair, probably—in his mouth, Ignoring it, he continued to speak. ‘You still could. Been awake long?’

Lifting her head from her pillow, she looked at the clock. ‘Five minutes,’ she told him. ‘You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I had to move.’ With that, she uncurled herself and stretched. He felt both duvet and mattress move with her.

Harry used his tongue to seek out the hair. Successful, he put out his tongue. Ginny watched in silence. It took two attempts before he managed to take the strand between finger and thumb and pull. It kept coming. He didn’t need to find his glasses and check its colour. There was no doubt that the hair in his mouth wasn’t his.

‘One of mine,’ said Ginny sympathetically. ‘They get everywhere. I get fed up with them myself. I should probably get my hair cut short.’

‘NO,’ shouted Harry in alarm.

The passion in his reply surprised him. Even without his glasses he could see enough of Ginny’s expression to realise that it had surprised her too. He tried to explain himself to her.

‘Um, it’s your hair, so you can do what you want with it,’ he told her apologetically. He reached across the bed and stroked her shining red mane. ‘But don’t think that my swallowing a few strands of this…’ he twisted his fingers in it. ‘…while I’m asleep, means that you have to chop it off.’

Ginny stroked his stubble-covered cheek. ‘You’ve never actually told me that you like my hairstyle—if you can call it a style,’ she murmured. ‘I know you like the colour, but…’

‘I like all of you,’ he said, not sure what else to say. ‘But… I don’t want you to think that you can’t cut it, if you want to. I mean ... um ... I won’t find you any less attractive, it’s… well... I really…’ he could see her smile, and he knew she was amused by his floundering. ‘I like your hair just as it is,’ he finished lamely.

‘You really are rubbish at compliments, Harry,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I _do_ understand; that first NO was enough. You don’t want me to cut my hair short.’

Harry opened his mouth, but she gently placed a forefinger on his lips, silencing him.

‘Shut up with the “It’s your hair, you can do what you want,” nonsense, Harry,’ she said quietly. Removing her finger from his lips, she gently flicked the tip of his nose. ‘Sometimes a girl wants to be told no! Sometimes the passion in that one word is all she needs to hear.’ Sitting, she shook her head, causing her hair to fly across his face. ‘Now, I’ll go and make some tea and... breakfast in bed seems like a good idea.’

‘Hmm,’ murmured Harry, lost in the scent of her hair.

When she closed the door, Harry looked around the room. Ginny’s home in Beaumaris was becoming more familiar to him, but he rarely slept over. Usually, if they spent the night together, it was at Grimmauld Place, but they’d both had a little too much to drink after the celebrations in Holyhead.

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to the previous evening. Ginny’s England Under-21’s Game had gone well. Although it was only a friendly game, they’d convincingly beaten Scotland. At the British and Irish Quidditch League event afterwards, he had danced with her. For someone who didn’t dance, he’d done a lot of dancing.

The next thing he knew, the bedroom door was opening.

‘You’ve been back to sleep,’ Ginny observed. ‘I’ve just woken you, haven’t I?’

‘Good night, last night,’ he said by way of reply.

‘It was,’ she agreed. Enchanting the tray so that it levitated above the bed, she slipped in beside him. ‘Your dancing is improving, but you’ll need more practice before we go to Dudley’s party.’

‘That’s still months away,’ he reminded her.

As she shuffled into bed alongside him, the smell of breakfast assailed him. Ginny used her wand to open the curtains, banishing the semi-darkness in a blaze of morning sunlight.

‘Breakfast smells good, what is it?’ he asked. He sat up.

‘It’s a bacon, fried egg, and black pudding ciabatta,’ she said. ‘Mona McLeod, our reserve Keeper, reckons it’s the best breakfast bap in the world. I thought we could try it.’

After putting on his glasses, he sat up, adjusted the pillow behind his back, and placed his arm around her shoulders. Picking up the ciabatta in his other hand, he took a bite. Ginny did the same.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘You can make these again,’ he said. ‘In fact, if you don’t want to finish yours...’

‘I do! And it’s Sunday lunch at the Cricketers with the Grangers,’ she reminded him. ‘You know how big the carvery meals at the pub are.’

‘Mmm,’ Harry nodded. Staring through the window and taking in the view over the Menai Straits, he silently concentrated on eating and on holding Ginny close. The view from the window, the weather, Ginny at his side, and good food, it added up to perfection.

‘Knut for your thoughts?’ Ginny asked.

‘I wasn’t thinking about anything,’ he admitted. ‘I was... I suppose I was enjoying the moment.’ He lifted his dangling hand and stroked her jaw. ‘Life’s good.’

Grabbing his hand, she lifted it to her lips and kissed it. ‘It is,’ she agreed.

They sat in silence. His arm over her shoulders, her free hand holding his. Hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and calf to calf, they gazed out through the window and silently finished their breakfast.

‘Can I talk about work?’ Harry asked, putting his empty mug on the tray.

‘Of course.’

‘I think that we’re finally getting somewhere, Ginny, but I’m worried. I’ve got a feeling that something’s coming. Something makes me think that they’ve got a plan, but I can’t put my finger on why I think so. If they do have a plan, I don’t know what it is, or even who’s involved.’

‘If you think something’s going on, Harry, then it is. So tell me what you do know.’

‘Marcus Flint, Millicent Bulstrode—I mean Flint, Gregory Goyle, and Miles Bletchley have been on the run since The Battle.’

‘I know _that_ , Harry,’ she squeezed his hand. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘If Astoria Greengrass was telling Lavender the truth, we know that her sister is holed up with Bletchley at Goyle’s place and that she’s now Daphne Bletchley; you know that, too,’ Harry continued. ‘But Ron’s worried that it’s all lies. He’s concerned that Draco and Astoria are plotting with the others.’

‘And Ron’s often right.’ Ginny nodded. ‘But not always. What do you think?’

‘’Dromeda, Narcissa and Draco firmly believe that Goyle wants Draco dead,’ said Harry thoughtfully. ‘Goyle’s a killer, and I’m pretty certain that he hates Draco. Everything about the break in at Justin’s place makes me reasonably sure he tried to frame Draco using Polyjuice and a prefect’s badge. That makes them very unlikely allies. And...’ Harry stopped.

‘And what?’ Ginny asked.

Harry laughed. ‘I stopped myself because I realised what I was about to say,’ he admitted. ‘Lavender thinks that Astoria is telling the truth about Daphne. She’s certain that Daphne is unhappy and wants to come home. And—I never thought I’d say this, but—I trust Lavender’s judgement.’

Ginny chuckled.

‘There’s something else, Ginny,’ he said worriedly. ‘It’s Daphne... We’ve sort of promised her...’

‘You’ve sort-of-promised Daphne that she won’t get prosecuted if she can help you capture Bletchley,’ said Ginny. ‘I know, Harry. Don’t worry about _that_. Yes, she was using Linny to dope me up with the Love/Hate Potion. But, apart from a few weeks of bad publicity and putting me off my game, no real harm was done. She’s married to Bletchley, remember. He was cruel and vindictive at school, and he won’t have changed. She’s already being punished. Now, let’s get ready. We don’t want to be late for the Grangers.’

* * *

In the few seconds of silence that followed Harry’s comment, Ginny looked around the Granger’s large and comfortable lounge. Jean Granger, who sat in the armchair closest to the window, caught Ginny’s eye and smiled. Her husband, who was at the other side of the door to the hallway, appeared to be oblivious to what had been implied.

John Granger looked pointedly at his wife. ‘It’s a long time since anyone made _me_ breakfast in bed.’

‘A bacon, egg, and _black pudding_ ciabatta?’ Jean sounded incredulous. ‘I’m not sure you’d thank me.’

‘Sounds like a good breakfast to me,’ said Ron, trying to hide his discomfort at the words that had begun this particular conversation.

‘It’s food, Ron, of course it sounds good to you,’ Harry told his friend before turning back to Hermione’s father. ‘I wasn’t sure myself, but it was really good, and very filling. That’s why we didn’t have any dessert with our Sunday lunch, isn’t it, Ginny?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

Ginny and Harry were in their usual place, snuggled together in the crook of the Granger’s corner sofa. Their lunch at The Cricketers, the Grangers’ local pub, had been hours earlier, and they were enjoying a late tea, or early supper, of cheese and crackers. Breaking a piece of Blue Stilton from the slice on the plate she and Harry were sharing, Ginny put it on a cracker and took a bite.

‘Ron made _me_ breakfast this morning,’ said Hermione innocently. ‘It was only toast, but he managed to master the electronical toast-maker.’

Ginny watched the blush spread over her brother’s panicked face. Catching Hermione’s mother’s eye, she grinned.

‘Is there any tea left?’ asked Ron in desperation.

‘I’ll make a fresh pot,’ said Jean, taking mercy on him. ‘Hermione,’ she added, inclining her head towards the door.

Ginny noted Hermione’s puzzled expression. ‘You can show me where the cheese is, Hermione,’ she said, sliding her leg out from under Harry’s. ‘I’d like a little more Edam, if that’s okay.’

‘Edam, the only cheese that’s made backwards,’ John Granger said.

‘Dad!’ Hermione rolled her eyes.

‘How do you make a cheese backwards?’ asked Ron, eagerly seizing the opportunity to change the subject.

‘It’s Dad’s oldest joke, Ron,’ said Hermione as she stood and followed her mother and Ginny from the room. ‘I used to think it was funny—when I first learned to spell. Think about it.’

When the three women entered the kitchen, Jean closed the door and smiled. ‘Bless him,’ she said. ‘He’s such a sweet man.’

‘Dad?’ asked Hermione.

‘Ron!’ Ginny said. ‘Honestly, Hermione, didn’t you see his face?’

Jean Granger laughed, and addressed her daughter. ‘Sometimes you’re as clueless as your father, darling. Your boyfriend is such an old-fashioned sort, isn’t he? You probably couldn’t see his face, because you were leaning back and he was sitting forwards. But your boyfriend was scandalised when Harry mentioned that Ginny had made him breakfast in bed. I think it’s something he believes that no parents should know. And then you spilled the beans about him making _you_ breakfast.’

‘Oops,’ said Hermione sheepishly. ‘But the four of us go on holiday together, Mum. You know that! I mean... It must be obvious that we, that we...’

‘It is.’ Her mother waved away the implications with a dismissive hand. ‘But Ron wants to protect your reputation. He’s very old-fashioned.’

‘He is,’ Hermione agreed. ‘It’s rather sweet, really. Please don’t tease him about it, Mum, and don’t you say anything, Ginny; he’ll just get embarrassed.’ She looked worriedly into Ginny’s face. ‘Please,’ she repeated.

‘He’s safe,’ Ginny agreed reluctantly. ‘Unless he comes up with a ludicrous story about him arriving at your flat really early this morning. If he tries that, I’ll make sure you could fry bacon, egg, and black pudding on his face!’

While Hermione and her mother made the tea, Ginny cut herself another thin slice of cheese. ‘Edam: made,’ she announced, smiling as realisation struck.

‘Don’t tell John it’s funny, you’ll only encourage him,’ begged Jean.

By the time the three women returned to the lounge the conversation had moved on to beer. John Granger was extolling the virtues of the Belgian wheat beer he’d been drinking instead of tea and pressing both Ron and Harry to try it.

‘Take a bottle home with you,’ he suggested as Ginny, a fresh mug of tea in her hand, settled herself back down next to Harry. ‘I know that you don’t like to drink and Apparate, so take…’

‘Harry Potter.’ The high pitched and excited voice shrieked out from Harry’s pocket.

‘That’s my Auror phone,’ said Harry worriedly. Shuffling forward, he pulled the Mirrorphone from his pocket and looked into it.

Several girls squealed, and there was a chorus of ‘Hello, Harry’.

‘Miss Ebhart, this is an Auror Mirrorphone!’ said Harry firmly.

Ginny could see the anger in his eyes. Peering over his shoulder, she saw five young women in the mirror. ‘This had better be Auror business,’ she told them firmly. Her appearance was greeted by a chorus of ‘oohs.’

‘He’s with Ginny Weasley!’ someone cried.

‘If you’ve something to tell me, okay,’ said Harry threateningly. ‘But send your friends out of the room first! If you haven’t...’

‘Grumpy, isn’t he?’ a girl at the back said.

‘This is an Auror Mirrorphone,’ Harry told them with a sigh. ‘You’ve seen me now so, unless you have information for me, get out!’

‘Yeah, see! I wasn’t lying, so shoo!’ Abigail Ebhart appeared unrepentant, but she chased her friends away. ‘The pickup is scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow morning, Harry,’ she said eagerly. ‘Delivery should be at around twenty past, depending on Portkey scheduling.’

‘Thanks,’ said Harry.

‘It’s seven o’clock on Sunday evening!’ Ron called from the other end of the sofa. ‘I can’t believe that girl, what’s-her-name, has only just found out. I bet she’s waited so she could impress her friends by calling you!’

‘Um,’ One glance at the girl’s worried expression was enough to make Ginny certain that Ron was correct. ‘It’s... um...’ Abigail floundered.

‘I’d speak to her mother, if I were you, Harry,’ Ginny suggested.

‘At least we know now,’ said Harry. Abigail’s anguished pleas were cut off when he exasperatedly broke the connection. ‘Ron,’ he began, turning to his friend.

‘Yeah, an Auror’s work is never done,’ Ron said. ‘What d’you think? Organise now and get a decent night’s kip?’

Harry nodded. ‘I’d better contact Robards to tell him what’s happening. I’ll have to cancel my meeting with Kingsley,’ he said, standing. ‘Sorry, Mr and Mrs Granger, I’ll have to leave. I’ll go home and use the secure Floo connection to contact Robards.’

‘Doesn’t he have a Mirrorphone?’ Ginny asked, although she was sure she knew what the answer would be.

Harry shook his head. ‘He doesn’t trust these new-fangled gadgets.’

‘Best not tell him about that last call, it’ll convince him he’s right,’ said Ron in annoyance. ‘I wonder when she really found out about the delivery, and who else she’s told.’

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Hunters and Prey, although you don't need to read that story first.


End file.
